


Let me see you

by Asala



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:59:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asala/pseuds/Asala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine curtsied slightly, for once not trusting her voice. Adaar’s eyes never left her own, and she felt a growing unease building up in her stomach, albeit not sure why exactly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To see the qunari

The first time Josephine saw the qunari, she was laying unconscious on a camp bed in a healer’s tent. After the Breach at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Cassandra herself had brought her to the village of Haven. First suspect, for she was the sole survivor of the blast, the qunari was to be questioned, should she wake up.

Josephine couldn’t quite make out the imposing silhouette, hidden in the shadows of the tent. She could only guess the forms of several flasks of healing potions, tainting bandages scattered across the floor, and the frantic healer who was on call at this time. They were three, if she recalled correctly, one of them being a mage. His most powerful spells hadn’t been able to bring the qunari back to the livings, though.

Her natural curiosity had tempted the antivan to slightly draw the curtains that served as a door, and only her good upbringing and the two guards posted here had kept her from giving in. She could have asked, of course, but Cassandra had been in the worst mood for the past three days, so there was no point fanning a growing fire just to get details about the strange prisoner. Leliana, albeit more patient and tempered than the warrior, had been of no help neither. She had spent the last few days either sending crows laden with heavy orders to her numerous spies or, Josephine suspected, crying. The Divine had been one of her good friends, after all, and Leliana her most zealous servant.

When the qunari had finally awakened, the noble woman had had no time to see her. She had been taken by soldiers for interrogation, under the supervision of both Cassandra and Leliana. If she could agree this was probably necessary, Josephine had urged the bard to remain _nice_ and not let her personal grievances cloud her judgment. Leliana had merely scoffed, which had let the diplomat with the unnerving feeling that prisoner was going to get beaten until she gave the answers they wanted.

The first time Josephine _really_ saw the qunari was after she had successfully closed that fade in the veil. Cassandra had taken her there in night’s secrecy, like a prisoner would have been marched to the gallows. Even after accomplishing that miracle, the qunari had not been freed, the seeker insisting for all the advisors to come and see that ‘Herald of Andraste’ for themselves before anything else.

“Cassandra, if that qunari sealed the Breach, surely she deserves better than a cell with just enough straw to keep her from the cold floor,” Cullen said, as they were marching down the stairs leading to the dungeon. “Honestly, I fail to see how—”

“Better play it safe,” cut the seeker, pursing her lips. “I failed the Chantry once already, I won’t let it happen again.”

Josephine said nothing, merely trying to keep up. She glanced sideways at Leliana but found her face closed, unreadable. _I wonder if you heeded my plea, dear friend? Or did you torture the qunari to ease the void left by Justinia? Well, I guess I’ll know soon enough._

The first time Josephine saw the qunari, she was left speechless.

Herah Adaar’s imposing figure had her hunched forward, her two horns scrapping against the rusty iron of her cage. The cell wasn’t small per se: a standard prisoner would have been able to stand in it and still have room above their head, but Haven had not prepared to take _qunaris_ in. Still though, even trapped and at the mercy of her gaolers, Herah inspired an odd mixture of respect and caution. It wasn’t only her muscular arms, or the strong legs one could guess under her loose trousers; it wasn’t only the cuts, here and there, that Josephine noticed with a pang in her heart, nor the hematomas that scarcely darkened the light — bronze? silver? the antivan couldn’t say — skin. There was _something_ in those piercing eyes that never looked down and kept challenging to find another gaze worth submitting to; those amber irises were feisty, lit by the fire of an entire army, Josephine thought. Herah looked like a caged, toothless dog, ready to bite nevertheless.

“What a _delightful_ surprise,” the qunari said, barely above a whisper, her low voice sounding like thunder to Josephine’s ears. “So you’ve come back, and in quite pleasant company, I see.” Her eyes landed on the antivan for a brief instant, gleaming. “I would offer you a curtsey,” she said to the lot of them, now glaring at Cassandra and Leliana, “but I think you had me on my knees long enough to tire even of this.”

Josephine turned towards Leliana who fainted not to feel her _hurt,_ burning eyes on her. _Niceness before knives, Leliana._ Maker! She could already hear her friend scolding her. But there was too much at stake; too many lives depended on them and there was no time anymore for playing nice.

“This is Josephine Montilyet,” introduced Cassandra, almost barking. “The Inquisition’s ambassador and chief diplomat.”

Josephine curtsied slightly, for once not trusting her voice. Adaar’s eyes never left her own, and she felt a growing unease building up in her stomach, albeit not sure why exactly.

“And this is Cullen, commander of our troupes." 

The man merely nodded, looking at the prisoner warily. She eyed him with equal mistrust, although having a soldier, a simple soldier and not a Chantry fanatic like Cassandra, in the ranks of her judges was somehow reassuring.

“Quite a glittering assembly you have here, Seeker. And you expect me to be part of this Inquisition I suppose? Why should I accept what I’m such is a very a tempting offer?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Because you don’t have a choice!” It was Leliana who had burst out and that little slip made the qunari smirk with satisfaction. “That mark on your hand,” she said, eyeing the green glow, “enables you to close the fades. There is no other way to send the spirits and demons on the other side of the veil and restore peace in Thedas.”

“So far I had gathered. But why would I ally myself with _you_?”

“We’ll be your advisors.” It was obvious the idea of _serving_ the qunari was painful to the redhead. “May you be the only one to have survived the Breach and get out of it marked, you don't stand a chance alone. Demons won’t be your only enemy, and without the help of the Inquisition, you will die; either from your mark, or else.”

Even if her eyes had sparkled with satisfaction at the word ‘advisors’, the qunari didn’t seem more enthusiastic than Leliana at the idea of working together. She remained silent for an agonizing time, pondering her options, and finding with distaste that the bard was indeed right: she didn’t have a choice.

“All right,” she eventually said, greeting her teeth.

“I hope we can trust you.” Cassandra’s comment broke the stretching silence, like a warning, her stern face showing nothing but suspicion and annoyance.

“I don’t know, can you?” Herah bit back, her horns banging loudly against the cage as she abruptly turned her head. “Seems to me I’d have to be pretty stupid to inflict _this_ ,” she shook her left, gleaming hand, “to myself, knowing it will only grow to kill me. I told you already I was sent here to secure the conclave, not to destroy– _Ah_!”

She retracted her hand, holding it close against her. It had felt like a shock of electricity, like she was suddenly burned. But it’s another kind of warmth that shot through her arm as she felt Josephine’s small hand on her, her voice distraught when she asked Herah if she was all right.

“I’m… fine,” she retorted, at lost for one of her usual stinging answer.

“I already had that verified.” Leliana’s cool voice startled her out of her reverie. “It’s true that you came here with the Valo-kas, but we all know how easy it is to disguise oneself. Besides, we didn’t get the chance to question your little party, but seeing how well that went with you…”

“You _spied_ on me?” Herah chocked, her eyes blazing with anger that soon let place to confusion. “Wait. What do you mean you didn’t– _where_ is my company?”

This time it was Cassandra who spoke, with her usual tact:

“They all died in the Breach.” She paused, then added, like an after thought: “I’m sorry.”

“Panahedan kedan” the qunari breathed, looking away, and Josephine couldn’t tell if she was containing a raging ire, or tears.


	2. Fire

Things were running smoothly in Haven, or so it looked. Herah was slowly learning to get along with her advisors, even though it sometimes required a patience she wasn’t sure she possessed. She knew the feeling was entirely mutual, as she saw more often than once Leliana rolling her eyes at one of her comment, or Cassandra pursing her lips in a thin line of displeasure. But even if it felt like all this Inquisition thing was a strange melting pot of nugs, deepstalkers and brontos trying to _tolerate_ each other’s presence, the qunari didn’t mind it as much as she'd had at the beginning. She was far from actually _liking_ the situation she found herself in, but it was bearable.

What was difficult to get used to was probably the loss of the entire Valo-kas company. The tal-vashoth mercenaries hadn’t exactly been her friends, Herah thought, not a substitute family either. They were more than simple colleagues however, for their job always brought people together in the most curious ways. They had each other’s back, but didn’t share much behind that unspoken oath. Kaariss, the poet of their band, would often sing one of his texts around a bonfire, or recite the most famous writers of Thedas by heart; Shokrakar always had a good story about some old contracts of his, but they never knew if even half of it was actually true. No personal matters were ever discussed in the group. Some of them had let a detail or two slip out, every now and then, but not Herah.

That one mistake of her father, that stupid _leak_ of his, was still etched painfully in her memory. She could still feel the radiating heat of their small house, as her father had set it on fire, urging them to leave. _Run and don’t look back, never look back._ And run away she had, the strong hand of her mother almost breaking her bones as the two of them were fleeing their home. Her father had set fire to the house and thrown bones of old carcasses from beasts he had hunted in it, to fake the carbonized corpses of his wife and daughter. The story was simple really, already written and just waiting to unfold: The Ben-Hassrath would come and _try_ to take Herah’s father back to Qunandar for re-education, he would ask for the rest of his family as well. The strong warrior that was the tal-vashoth would show the house falling apart, eaten by the angry flames. The bones in it were just a precaution, really: the qunaris weren’t keen on loosing time over banalities, and strived for efficiency. Naturally, the Ben-Hassrath would overlook this. Issqun Adaar, former high ranked military of Qunandar, would refuse to follow him and, thanks to his past contributions to the nation of the Qun, would at least be given a clean death.

Even after all these years, Herah was still sometimes caught staring at fires with an odd expression on her face. If the other members of the Valo-kas had often wondered in hushed whispers _why_ , they had never dared to ask; she was a skilled assassin, after all.

Only Katoh, the sole other female of the gang, had managed to elicit some vague details about Herah’s life, sharing what would have been judged as far more intimate by most.

Sitting on the edge of a bed too small for her, Herah sighed. Of them all, it was certainly Katoh she missed the most. They hadn’t been close, not really. They hadn’t been lovers, for this implied some degree of love. A love Herah could accept with difficulty only, let alone give. What had started as a pain relief had grown into more for one of them, and when Katoh's strong eyes had yield for her, Herah had closed her own, pretending not to see this shift in whatever relation they had.

They hadn’t been lovers, for Herah didn’t know how to love.

But still, she had cared for Katoh in her way.

She stretched her massive figure, yawning a bit as she got up. She was used to sleep on cold floors, or even to spend nights awake, fighting an overwhelming fatigue because she feared getting attacked by either a beast or bandits. Still, a warm bed was always welcome; a pity this one was thirty centimetres too small.

After dressing up with her usual loose trousers and top, she made her way towards the Chantry’s kitchen, where she shared most of her meals with her _advisors_. She couldn’t help but cringe just _thinking_ the word: she didn’t belong here, put as a pseudo leader of that dusty order.

Of course, the three other ladies — although Herah wasn’t sure she would associate that word with Cassandra and Leliana — were already there, eating quietly, save for the occasional small talk. Josephine was regal and poised, as usual, already offering her a welcoming smile; Leliana had, to Herah’s greatest delight, dark rings under her eyes that matched with perfection her gloomy attire; and Cassandra, well… that woman’s entire range of emotions was displayed with the same resting bitch face, so it was difficult to say whether or not she had indeed slept well.

“Lady Montilyet,” greeted the qunari, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Cassandra, Leliana,” she added, more to maintain social appearances than anything.

“Mistress Adaar,” responded the diplomat, bowing ever so slightly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Haven’s beds are a bit short for my liking,” she admitted, “but I doubt they expected a guest of my size,” she added, pouring herself a large cup of tea and missing the amused gleam in Josephine’s eyes.

“I don’t think any of us did,” said Leliana, tartly. 

“No, I don’t think any of us did,” agreed the qunari, briefly turning her eyes on the bard, a light smirk spreading on her lips. She could only guess just _how much_ Leliana would have preferred a docile human, instead of a horned devil. She returned to her plate, putting meat and bread on it. “And what about you, ambassador?” she asked. “I hope you didn’t loose sleep over those alliances of us?”

“Reaching the noble houses of Val Royeaux certainly proves to be quite the work: they’re still wary of us, and no offense milady, but a lot of them have… mixed feelings about the qunaris.”

“Can’t blame them,” Leliana snorted, much to Josephine’s displeasure, who carried on without paying attention to her friend’s demeanour.

“However,” she said, a mischievous smile grazing her lips, “I’m nothing if not resourceful. I assure you I won’t loose sleep over what is merely a game of rhetoric and palm’s greasing.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Herah bowed her head ever so slightly. “Do let me know if I can help you in any way.” 

The door creaked open, briefly interrupting their conversation. Cullen greeted everyone politely, before turning towards the qunari with a smug yet friendly smile. 

“Herald,” he simply said, taking a sit and already serving himself up.

Herah eyed him curiously, raising an eyebrow ominously.

“What did you just call me?”

“Herald,” he repeated, now frowning a bit at the unexpected offense the rogue seemed to have taken. “They call you the _Herald of Andraste_ ,” he explained, wondering of it was possible that the principal concerned party had yet to hear about this nickname.

She looked at him bewildered, as if waiting for him to burst out laughing and tell her this was his idea of a joke. The three other women were following the scene with facial expressions that went from curiosity to complete irritation.

“Who are _they_?” She eventually asked, fixing her confused eyes on her nearly empty plate.

“Everyone. Well, almost everyone. The word of you has quickly travelled past Haven; you’ve become a figure of hope in the midst of this chaos.”

“Bashra vashedan; hope is a fool notion to entrust my name with,” she cut him, almost with disgust. “It may have escaped your keen eyes,” she added, a mocking smirk distorting her lips as she grazed one of her horns with her long fingers, “but I’m not exactly the _kind_ your dear Chantry would likely have pictured as its Lady Redeemer’s pet.”

“But even in the Chantry,” Cassandra interjected, “there are those who believe you are the Herald of Andraste, qunari or not.”

“Well, to call a thing falsely is to put out one’s own eyes,” Herah quoted, like a mantra imprinted in her mind.

“But to call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world,” Josephine finished, earning a very surprised look from Adaar. “Maybe you don’t believe it, but surely the hundreds who do must weight something in the balance.”

Her amber eyes still stuck with astonishment on the diplomat, Herah was about to say something but Leliana was quicker.

“Not qunari,” she said regarding Cassandra’s comment. “ _Tal-v_ _ashoth._ ”

“Well well, little birdy did her homework, didn’t she?” Herah sneered in response, her voice cold and menacing.

“So if you do not believe in the Qun,” Cullen began, not quite sure how to voice his question. “And do no believe in the Chantry’s words…” 

“You mean to ask if I believe in anything at all?”

The Templar nodded, embarrassment slightly colouring his cheeks.

“You mistake the Qun for a religion, when it’s either much less, or much more, but definitely not the same as your Chant of Light,” she carefully began. “Believing in the Qun certainly doesn’t have the same implications as believing in what your priestesses tell you.”

She sipped her tea, pondering her words. 

“I can understand why the Chantry could be appealing to you humans,” she whispered. “You seem to have quite a knack for seeking your own redemption by pointing out others’ faults. But I cannot fathom why the other races would find solace with your religion. After all, we need _saving_ , not out of benevolence, but rather because we have turned so far from your Maker’s grace, haven’t we?”

There was a constricted silence after that, although the qunari didn’t quite understand why: those humans really had the nose for being embarrassed by peculiar matters. 

“But do you approve of it, then?” Cullen asked. “The Qun, I mean.”

“Approve? What a strange choice of word.” She tilted her head on the side, looking at the troupes commander as if he was a particularly interesting puzzle to solve. “I was raised outside of the Qun,” she explained, “but very aware of it. It would be difficult for me to be a fair judge, as my experience is probably unlike any other,” she added, a sad smile on the lips. “But I certainly find it interesting, although I wouldn’t let a Ben-Hassrath drag me to Qunandar without putting up a fight.” 

“So you would rather die than follow orders,” Leliana mused, taping her chin in a satisfied manner. “Interesting.”

“You have no idea what they do to those who refuse to _submit_ ,” the qunari growled, that comment setting her amber irises on fire.

“But _you_ do, right?”

“ _Parshaara_!”

If Leliana had looked smug until now, pressing the matter until the breaking point, she couldn’t hide the fear that had crept up her now pallid face. Herah had _yelled._ Not in a shrieking, high pitched breaking voice, but in a low, _very low_ one, which had sound like the growl of a dragon. She had risen up from her chair, so abruptly that it had fallen behind her, and slammed her mug on the table with such force that, in addition to tea spilling over, there had been porcelain debris scattering everywhere.

The qunari was tall, this was no secret; but the ire storming in the glacial eyes she maintained on Leliana’s sheepish frame gave her another dimension. She wasn’t just tall or impressive anymore: she was terrifying.

“Ashkost kata,” she spat with disgust. Ready to leave the kitchen, she stopped at Leliana’s level, bending so she could whisper in a calm, _awfully calm_ voice to her ear. “Bring this one more time and I’ll assure you that advisor or not, I shall teach you the full meaning of that phrase.”

She didn’t even bother looking at the three spectators: their gasps of horror had been enough.


	3. Walk with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to thank you all for the feedbacks and the kudos, it's really motivating! Also, I apologise if some mistakes occasionally slip into the text but English is not my first langage and I tend to see spelling errors only when the chapter is already online *sighs*. Anyway, I hope you'll like the chapter!

After the breakfast incident, Herah had avoided all contacts with her advisors, efficiently shutting herself in her room: no one had dared to even knock at the door, afraid of what her reaction might be. She had left the kitchen spoiled with a dead silence, eventually broken by Cassandra. 

“What did she say? Ash-something-kata? What was it?”

Leliana coughed audibly, scratching her neck with embarrassment. If the seeker probably didn’t care the slightest about the scene she had caused, the bard knew Cullen would eventually say something about it, should he get a chance to talk to her in private, but _Josephine_ wouldn’t wait to let her disappointment show and would certainly condemn this misconduct for several days.

“Ashkost kata,” Leliana whispered, her eyes fixed on her cold tea, embarrassed liked a student that had just been scolded. “It means…”

“It’s a cry the qunaris shout when their honour has been wounded. Traditionally, they used to enter a _death_ duel to regain prestige, which explains the sinister meaning of that phrase,” Josephine cut her with an unusual stiffness.

“If her _ego_ can’t handle a bruise,” Leliana began with petulance.

“You know full well it wasn’t a bruise. You push and push, like a child would a playing stick, and when it finally breaks, you pretend it was the wood that was weak to begin with. I think the ego that can’t handle even a bruise is yours, actually.”

“What?”

Josephine couldn’t help a light smirk to rise on her lips as she saw her friend almost choke from offense.

“You reproach her the death of Justinia, and I’ve come to wonder if all this act of yours isn’t some sort of childish jealousy after all.”

“Me? Jealous of that horned devil? Of course I’m wary of her, rightfully so! That qunari has managed to erase _almost_ all traces of her in Thedas; even my best agents couldn’t get more that _rumours_ about her! And would you believe! She and her band of mercenaries get hired as security for the conclave: quite a fine job she did!”

“A horned devil who may very well have been chosen as the true Herald of Andraste,” noted the diplomat. “But I must say I’m tempted to say ‘I told you so’, as I see your barbaric questioning methods were, as predictable, _fruitless_.”

“The Divine Justine was _dead_ , we needed…”

“A culprit.”

If the antivan had always managed to remain polite and friendly in the most nerve-racking situations, her voice was now icy and accusing.

“I don’t know exactly what happened during that interrogation of yours, but seeing the state she was in when you put her back in that cell, even _after_ she had successfully sealed that fade, I can only imagine.” She briefly turned her eyes to Cassandra, who remained stoic. Josephine returned to Leliana, who had crossed her arms across her torso, obviously reluctant to discuss the matter any further. “I won’t go as far as to suggest you to rein your temper in: I hope you realise what’s at stake, and how _unwise_ it would be for you to make an enemy of her. I will advise you, however, both as a diplomat and a _friend,_ ” she pointedly stretched the word, “to try to look a little less at the flaws she bares at your eyes, and be a little bit more attentive to what qualities she may have.”

“Qualities you already know all about, don’t you?” sneered the bard in defense.

“I never refuted to have keener eyes than you,” replied the diplomat, with an amused smile.

Oblivious to the reprimand Leliana had gotten, Adaar had gone for the training grounds to calm down her nerves. If she liked to train with her blades, today she had decided for hand-to-hand combat, punching one of those dummies made of straw aggressively, with both her fists and her feet. She could feel the relieving pain radiating through her with each blow, the dummy suffering little damage compared to her bleeding knuckles.

From her office, Josephine could see the qunari landing each blow with more aggressiveness. She stayed like this for several minutes, taking in the scene unravelling before her eyes: how she could see puffs of dust come with each blow, how focused Adaar was, deliciously oblivious to her spectator. The diplomat couldn’t help but smile, as she noticed the soldiers training at the camp had let a safe distance between them and the Herald of Andraste, looking at her with both admiration and fear.

“I do hope I’m not the one you’re picturing,” Josephine said as she approached Herah.

The qunari turned around, surprised by the interruption. However, when her amber eyes met Josephine’s, they were kind and sparkling with something the diplomat couldn’t quite place.

“Shenadan, lady Montilyet.” She tilted her head in a bow, looking briefly at the dummy: one of its arms was dangling pitifully. “I wouldn’t even allow myself the thought, my lady,” she said humbly. “But I’ll admit the mannequin does bare a certain resemblance with one of your colleague in my mind.”

Josephine laughed at this, hiding her amusement behind a hand as if half condemning it. _Oh well, you asked for it, Leliana._

“What may I do for you, ambassador?”

“I was wondering if you’d fancy a walk? Unless you’d prefer to inspire more fear in Cullen’s new recruits, of course.” 

Adaar looked around and noticed with surprise that several privates were indeed looking at her with a face white as a sheet. She chuckled darkly.

“And you don't fear me? Maybe your chief Templar fails to see a promising soldier when he meets one.” She paused briefly, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “But I doubt iron and steel would be fitting for a lady such as yourself,” she added smoothly.

“Ah, my weapons are indeed made of other material,” Josephine conceded with a smile. “As to fear you, I believe the real question is if I should. So? Can I entice you in a stroll?”

“That you can. Let me just quickly refresh myself, if you don’t want to saunter next to a smelly bronto.”

Josephine’s laugh died in her throat as she saw the qunari remove her tank top in the most natural way, obviously not caring the slightest at who might see her in her breast bindings. The antivan wasn’t prude per se, at least not in the noble families’ standards, but she couldn’t help a blush to creep up her cheeks, as she found herself unable to look away.

She watched with a guilty fascination the qunari wet a towel in a bucket and pass it on her skin. The gestures were abrasive, not unlike the character she thought, but precise nevertheless. Whatever treatment Leliana and Cassandra had seen fit to inflict her had faded away from Herah’s tall figure. Old wounds were still etched in her skin as long, white scars, and Josephine realised with a heaving that it looked like the marks of a whip. The qunari turned around as she was putting a loose shirt on, an eyebrow slightly arched as she saw the grim expression of the noblewoman.

“From your face, I take it the quick wash was much needed and welcomed,” she deadpanned. “I can’t imagine what a qunari must smell like to a human.”

“You don’t–” For the first time in _years_ , not only was Josephine at lost for words, but she stammered on the few she could find in the back of her mind. “You smell fine,” she said, clearing her throat awkwardly. “Now, shall we?”

“After you.” 

They walked quietly on the border of Haven, sheltered by the welcomed shadow of tall trees. Herah, not used to the small legs of humans, had to slow her pace for the noblewoman not to have to trot to keep up. It wasn’t only the fact that she was tall, although it certainly played a role; the qunaris simply didn’t go for leisure walks. Their entire race, culture, was built on that desire to strive for efficiency, for excellence. If they walked, it was fast; if they went outside, it was to hunt usually. Even growing up as a Tal-Vashoth, Herah hadn’t been spared some old habits of her parents.

“So, tell me more about yourself,” the qunari said after a moment, leaving her contemplation of the trees to turn her attention on Josephine. “How does one noblewoman become ambassador for the Inquisition?”

“What makes you think I am of noble ascendance?”

“You’re obviously well educated, not that it is reserved to wealthy people. Your posture also, your general attitude: not a strand out of place; you’re quietly spoken and skilfully choose your words, which led me to think you must have had rhetoric lessons whilst growing up, and raising your voice would only get you a rap on the knuckles. The way you carefully take your fork and knife, eating only parsimoniously because a meal is merely the theatre of important conversations, which you’ve learnt not only to listen to, but also to observe.” The qunari smiled and bowed humbly. “Or maybe you’re just a self-taught peasant girl from Lothering, but allow me to say you would have fooled my eyes like no one before.”

“Then do trust your eyes, as you draw that picture with quite an expert brush.” The corner of her lips twitched with an appreciative smile. “I was an ambassador in the royal courts of Thedas for many years, and I’ve known Leliana for even more. She’s the one who offered me this position in the Inquisition, actually.” The qunari couldn’t repress a little grunt at the mention of the redhead. “What about you? You seem quite verse on the nobility’s upbringing, maybe you’ve grown up with it yourself?”

“I’m surprised your dear friend hasn’t already told you all there is to know about me,” Herah teased.

“I’d very much prefer to hear it from you.”

“Very well.”

Herah paused an instant, taking a deep breath. This was new, this feeling of both trust and wariness at the same time. She had no proof she could trust that woman; if she were honest with herself, she doubted she had ever really trust anyone in her life, except her parents maybe. The only thing she could rely on was her gut feeling that the antivan wasn’t playing games, at least not with her. That she didn’t force her pleasantness and that when she laughed, it was genuine. Besides, she was the only one to have looked truly horrified when discovering how the Inquisition had caged its now leader, wasn’t she?

“The concept of nobility is foreign to the qunaris,” she explained. “The closest thing to it would probably be the ranks held within the antaam, which is the military branch of the Qun, under the Ariqun, who is the leader of the priests, and the Arigena, who directs the craftsmanship. I guess I can’t pretend to anything, as I was born an outsider,” she said, staring into space. “But my father was a commander in the Beresaad, a military division that goes beyond the qunari territories to find the answers sought by the Arishok, the chief of the army. My mother was a Tamassaran. It’s a… branch of the priesthood.”

Josephine didn’t respond right away, noticing that Herah was far from her comfort zone. She eventually broke the silence that had fallen between them two, her smile earnest when she said:

“So that explains why you’re so well-bred yourself.”

“Ah, my mother would have a good laugh if she heard this,” Herah chuckled. “I was quite the rambunctious kind of child, but I’m glad to see I somehow managed to assimilate her teachings.”

They were already back in Haven, Josephine telling Adaar the tales of her studies in Val Royeaux; the qunari couldn’t help but smile fondly at the passion with which the diplomat narrated her stories. Albeit not paying much attention to their surroundings, she noticed the insistent looks they were given by Haven’s residents, and soon, Josephine noticed it as well. 

“I apologise,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be subjected to such ignorance.”

It was quite obvious that the horns instigated several glares, as well as the unusual skin colour, and size. 

“And here I thought they were merely gawking at your rather _flamboyant_ outfit.”

Josephine turned towards her flabbergasted, and the qunari feared for one moment that she might have taken offense in what was just a quip, but the antivan started to laugh and rewarded her with a mischievous grin that easily made up for all the looks she had gotten.


	4. Wolf bite

It was their first journey outside Haven as the Inquisition. Herah was to meet a certain Lace Harding not so far from Redcliffe, the lieutenant scout who had already set up a camp near the village. To be honest, she was a bit nervous at the prospect of this first mission. Of course she had seen through much worse, but still, she wasn’t completely at ease with the idea of commanding the strange party they formed. Of her advisors, Cassandra was obviously the only one that would actually tag along if needed, and the qunari suspected it was more to keep an eye on her than to really help. She didn’t mind though: an extra sword in the midst of this Mages versus Templars was never too much.

It had taken the company three days to get to the Hinterlands. Had they all been qunaris, of course it would have taken less, but the legs of humans, elves and dwarves weren’t nearly as strong as Adaar’s, nor used to long hours of rapid walk, it seemed. She had agreed to make several stops, and to walk on daylight only. Her mission was not only to bring a certain mother Giselle to Haven, as Josephine had thought she would help the Inquisition to approach the remaining members of the Chantry, but also to bring back horses for their scouts. Hopefully, the mounts would allow them to make the trip back in no more than two days.

“Inquisitor, I didn’t think you would be so… tall.”

Herah had looked a bit surprised at the little woman, but smiled nevertheless, amused.

“Lace Harding, I suppose? A pleasure to meet you.”

The dwarf had lightly blushed at the qunari’s sultry voice.

Locating mother Giselle had not been an easy task, but they had found her in one piece and willing to cooperate with the Inquisition. It had been agreed that she would go to Haven with Harding and the other scouts as a chaperons, whilst Herah would go to Redcliffe’s farms to bargain horses. The qunari still didn’t know if she had her imposing figure to thanks or Varric’s silver tongue, but they had gotten fifteen horses in exchange for small services around the farms. After looking for some medicinal plants nearby, elfroot mainly, they had decided it was time to take their leave.

They had set up a camp at the edge of a small forest, the vast plains spreading as far as the eye can see before them. They had attached the horses to a rope stretched between two trees, leaving them to feed on grass. If Varric, Solas and Cassandra had gone to sleep in their rudimentary tent, Herah was still awake. Not that she _wanted_ to, but rather because her mark was pulsating painfully, flashes of green light gleaming ominously under the moonlight. 

The qunari took a deep breath. All used that she was to restless nights, she knew tomorrow would be a long, very long day: under her estimation, they still had a bit more than a day of walk before reaching Haven.

She startled out of her thoughts as she heard the horses becoming noisy, their hooves hitting the ground with growing anguish. One of them was looking up, alert. _Oh please don't–_

It all happened very fast. She didn’t have the time to reach the herd that the frantic horse was already getting its congeners to follow him, the result being the lots of them pulling back on the rope.

 “I need help!”

Cassandra woke up in a jolt and ran towards the qunari, albeit not up enough to fully comprehend why she was screaming. The rope broke before she could reach it, and even if Adaar was strong and tall, she couldn’t possibly hold fifteen panicking horses without getting hauled on the floor. She eventually let go of the rope, watching with horror all their mounts gallop away further down the plains.

“Solas, stop them!”

The mage had lost his usual mask of coolness and was looking around desperately, his powerful staff suddenly looking like the mere stick of a turbulent boy.

“I can’t, they’re too far, I can’t–”

The qunari didn't let him finish, already turning towards the dwarf.

“Then Varric: shoot the first horse of the herd.” 

“You want me to do _what_?”

“Shoot it! Ah for the love of–”

She took Bianca forcefully from his arms, and the thief was too stunned to even protest. She jammed a bolt in the crossbow and skilfully aimed for the horse that was leading the entire herd in a rampant gallop. Without a second of hesitation, she shot. They all watched with eyes wide as a plate the animal falling heavily on the ground. Even if its congeners continued to gallop for some distance, they eventually stopped, unable to carry on their mad run with a dead weight under their hooves. Everyone was shocked; Herah was  _furious._

“Now Solas, go and use whatever jinx of yours needed to keep them calm for what’s left of the night,” she hissed, before turning towards Varric and giving him back his crossbow, as well as one of her dagger she slammed in his hand. “You go with him and ensure that the horse is dead and not in pain.”

The two quickly obeyed and ran the distance to the horses. Herah grunted, spitting the dust she had in the mouth, when she _sensed_ something. She made a sudden about-turn, squinting her eyes as she looked over Cassandra’s shoulders.

“What–”

The Seeker didn’t have the time to finish her sentence that she was tackled on the floor, gasping for air as the qunari’s shoulder collided full force with her solar plexus. She looked up just to see a wolf landing from the jump it had taken above them.

The beast didn’t waste any time to attack again, and the warrior saw Herah shielding her. There was a scream and Cassandra realised with horror that the wolf had dived its fangs in the qunari’s arm. Taken aback, she watched her send it hurtling against a tree. Coming back to her senses, the human jumped for her sword and, before the wolf could attack again, hit him with all her might, her plastron splashed by the resulting gush of warm blood.

“Are you all right?” she asked running to Herah, her concern coming out whistling as she’s still out of breath.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she retorted, angrily pushing Cassandra away as she tried to see her wounded arm. “Just cut me a piece of a blanket so that I can bandage my arm before I’m out of blood to shed.”

The warrior obliged, handing her a band of tissue.

“Do you want me to tie it for you?”

“Where are Varric and Solas?” asked Herah, completely ignoring the question. “Can you see them?”

Cassandra searched the plains; thanks to the moonlight, she could make out the two silhouettes, as well as the horses.

“Yes, they’re coming back. They have the horses.” She turned towards Adaar, pointing the bleeding arm. “So?” 

“I’ll do it myself, I’d very much prefer if you could pack the tents: we’re leaving.”

“But it’s the middle of the night.” 

“So what? You slept a few hours, you’ll catch up when we’re somewhere safe,” came the annoyed reply.

“That’s not what I meant: _you_ did not sleep.”

“Your concern is _touching_ , really, but we don’t have time for that,” the qunari said, grabbing some of the elfroot they had gathered earlier today. She chewed it, so as to make some rudimentary paste she then applied on her wounded arm before bandaging it.

Varric and Solas finally came back, dragging the fourteen left horses with tem.

“We have the horses.” Their voices were a bit strained. “We’re leaving?”

Herah didn’t answer, looking at the herd with pursed lips.

“We’ll put tem in five rows of two, with the older ones at the front and the back. That leaves us four horses to mount. I’ll ride up front and Cassandra will close the march. Varric, Solas, you’ll be on each side of the convey,” she said, passing next the different horses to gauge their age. Some still had the teeth of foals, she thought, barely past three years of age. “All right, those go in the middle.” 

They rearranged the horses given that new order, with two lengths of rope this time. Varric handed her dagger to the qunari, and she saw with relief that it was unstained.

“Keep it, for the time being: I won’t be able to use it anyway,” she said with obvious irritation.

“Why? You– Maker, but you’re hurt! What happened?” 

“A wolf.” It was Cassandra who had spoken, her voice lacking its usual brusqueness. “Similar to those encountered near Dennett’s farms.”

“Do you want me to try to heal you?” asked Solas, his calm eyes scrutinising Herah’s reaction. “I’m not familiar with healing spells but…” 

“As pleasant as the experimentation sounds, we don’t have time to try all the pretty little gleaming spells of your book,” she replied, a light smile on her lips. The elf couldn’t quite say whether she was serious or not, and if there were a slur hidden behind her white teeth, but he merely nodded. “We need to leave in case there’s more of _this_ ,” she added, looking at the dead wolf, before turning back to Solas. His lips were slightly blue. She frowned. “Are _you_ all right?”

“I’m fine, just a bit cold,” he conceded.

“Well that’s not surprising with that fly sheet you call clothing.” 

She bent over the dead wolf and plunged her dagger in it, scraping against the cervical. With a sharp tug, she skinned it, and then turned towards Solas, who was looking at her downright horrified.

“Here,” she said, putting the bloodied fur on his shoulders. “This should keep you warm.”

She exchanged a playful look with Varric who laughed heartily.

“Inquisitor, I hope you won’t take it the wrong way, but you’re a _goldmine_ for my stories.”

It had been a bit more than a week since Adaar had left Haven. The three advisors left there hard worked hard on what would be coming up next, considering what they could do in case mother Gisele had fallen in the midst of the mages-templars war. Josephine had been sending letters to all her contacts in Thedas in hope of gaining enough leverage to turn the tables, regarding the distrust they were currently victim of. It was after one of her epistolary marathon that she ran into Cullen and the chancellor Roderick, sharing what seemed to be a rather heated conversation.

“–and let your colourful Inquisition and that blasphemous qunari of yours prance around as if she owned the place? I think not!”

The chancellor had spat the words with venom, his usual courtesy and temper obviously lost during the Breach. Josephine couldn’t help but sigh mentally: if _she_ had no problem with the Herald of Andraste being a bit studier than expected, and with horns, she knew it would prove to be quite the challenge to convince the Chantry man, along with many nobles of Orlais. Although a touch of exoticism may actually entice some of them. 

“I told you several times already chancellor,” said Cullen between his teeth, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hold back from hitting the man, “that the Inquisition is _not_ trying to overthrown the Chantry.”

“All this should be left to a new Divine, not to your _juvenile pack_.”

“Ah, chancellor Roderick,” Josephine chipped in with a bright smile as she adroitly interrupted a conversation she feared might soon turn ugly. “Cullen,” she added, holding his gaze for a bit longer than necessary, to make her message pass. She turned back to face the Grand Chancellor. “A juvenile pack? Why chancellor, a lady ought to be flattered to be spared a few years. Allow me to return you the compliment and say that the time has been kind to you as well,” she said softly.

This seemed to dumbfound the clergyman as he opened his mouth for air only, the offended retort failing to pass his lips.

“I hope you’ll be so kind as to forgive me for stealing our esteem commander,” she added, circling Cullen’s arm with her own. “I promised him a stroll to take his mind off the dreadful _killing_.” She took care to stretch the word, which efficiently discoloured Roderick’s face one shade lighter. “And with that wonderful weather we have today! I hope you’ll enjoy the sun as well, chancellor,” she quipped, albeit looking him dead in the eye. “We never know when the climate may turn grim.”

She took Cullen along with her, the Templar following like a child trotting to keep up with his mother, and they both left the chancellor still trying to come up with a witty response.

“Now I can see why Leliana chose you as the Inquisition’s ambassador,” he said with admiration. “Your mind is sharp as a blade, and your words, a deadly blow. Thank you for saving me from Roderick.”

“Well, I have to step up my game if I don’t want Leliana to reconsider the choice and replace me with Varric,” she said with a smile. “He has quite a silver tongue.”

Cullen laughed heartily.

“I doubt Leliana would even consider it, but should it happen the Inquisitor would object quite vehemently, if you ask me.”

Josephine frowned slightly, not one to loose her composure. 

“How do you mean?”

“Other than just for the _delight_ of going against Leliana’s will,” Cullen said with a smile, “I think Adaar recognises a skilled young woman when she meets one, and that she’d fight to keep her.”

Josephine’s perfect composure had broken in a light, guilty smile.

Two more days had passed before the diplomat heard the ramble, outside. Quickly folding the missive she’d been working on, she left her office to see what that noise was all about.

Adaar was leading a herd of horses, herself perched on a mount she managed to diminish, although that horse must have been around one meter seventy-five at the withers. They stopped. Cassandra got down with her lips pursed in a thin line of annoyance, already barking for a groom to take the horses to the stables. Varric for his part let himself fall on the floor more than he dismounted, which made Leliana snort, the spymaster now barely able to hold her laugh as she exchanged a knowing look with the diplomat.

Josephine noticed something was wrong though, as the Inquisitor was hunched over her horse, holding the reins and the rope with one firm hand only, her other arm hidden under her coat. Cullen rushed to hold her horse as she tried to dismount.

“Herald, are you all right?” he asked, not quite sure how he could help a woman who was a good head taller than him.

“I’ve told you several times already Cullen to _not_ call me that. My name is _Herah Adaar_ ,” she said with fainted irritation, as she carefully passed her right leg above the horse’s back, to dismount. “Trust me, you could have it worse with qunari–” She set foot on earth with a grunt. “–names,” she finished, hissing between her teeth.

“Inquisitor.”

Leliana was stiff as ever, but genuine concern spread to her eyes as they fell on Adaar’s hidden arm. She unbuttoned the coat thoughtfully, ignoring the growl she got in response from the tall woman, and revelled the wounded arm: it was covered in bandages reddened by the coagulated blood, and dried elfroot paste.

Herah winced as she saw Josephine, standing pallid behind the spymaster. Of course the diplomat mustn’t be used to that, but her plan to spare her the rather grim view had miserably failed.

“Shenadan, lady Montilyet,” was all she could offer, an apologetic smile on her lips.

“Mistress Adaar, you’re–” Her throat constricted painfully as she took in the damages on the arm. “I’ll fetch the healer this instant,” she said, already darting away.

Cassandra and Leliana guided Herah towards the same healer tent she’d to been already.

“What happened?” asked the bard, her voice missing her usual biting tone.

“Maybe another time? I just want to lie down for now,” whispered the qunari, the strain of the trip clearly audible. “Besides, I’m sure Varric will be more than thrilled to tell this story.”

“She’s right,” Cassandra said. “Stories can wait.”

Haven’s tavern had not needed to wait long for those stories, Varric revelling in his narration of how they had gotten the horses back. He was drinking his beer in large draughts, occasionally slamming his pint on the table for better emphasis. 

“She _shot_ one of the horses?”

Josephine, who had been sipping on her wine as parsimoniously as one could, looked utterly disgusted by the notion. Cassandra merely shrugged.

“We would probably have lost the entire herd if she hadn’t. I was nicely surprised by her pragmatism, actually.”

“All right Varric,” said Cullen, bending over the table like an enamoured boy ready to confess. “Then what happened? How did she get her forearm _mauled_?”

Josephine noticeably flinched at the word.

“Ah, I believe Seeker here can explain this part.”

“A wolf attacked us,” Cassandra said as if it were but a banality. “The Herald pushed me out of its way and–”

“I told you not to call me that.” Everybody turned to see the tall figure of Herah at the door, a smirk on her face. “May I join you?” She sat and ordered a hot wine. “My apologies, Seeker,” she said, “I cut you in what was, I’m sure, a very interesting story. Do carry on.”

“I was merely telling them what happened that night at the camp,” retorted the nevarran, not quite sure if the qunari was earnest or mocking her. “So, when the wolf came back to attack, the Inquisitor stopped it with her arm, and then managed to send him flying across a tree.”

“Wait. A wolf? Like an _adult wolf_?” Cullen could barely held a laugh, as well as his drink it seemed. “How heavy was it?”

“I didn’t exactly have the time to weigh it, commander,” Herah explained, amusement dancing in her eyes, “but next time I’ll be sure to give it a shot.”

“Oh, but do not forget the best part, Inquisitor,” Varric added, soon enough exaggerating with obvious pleasure how she had skinned said wolf and covered an horrified Solas with it.

“You should have seen his face.”

“Speaking of our esteem dreamer, where is he?” asked Herah, sipping on her wine.

“He said he could still _smell_ the blood on his skin. I believe he’s trying an umpteenth bath to get rid of that sweet fragrance you kindly gave him.”

At this point, even Cassandra had lost her stoic composure, and Adaar was gazing with a content smile at Josephine who was drying tears of laughter.


	5. Envy

They were back from Therinfal. If she had been granted half a day of peace upon her return, Herah had awoken early the next morning, for they had to decide what to do with the remains of Therinfal’s Templars. She had awoken a bit later than usual however, fighting the fatigue left by a night plagued with nightmares. Not that dreams, as dreadful they might be, could frighten her; but it had left her with a feeling of unease she couldn’t quite explain. That envy demon had just toyed with her mind; none of this had actually been _real,_ right? Besides, they had slaughtered the malevolent spirit, so there was no point brooding over this.

Herah looked at her reflection in the mirror of her room, shivering as she remembered how harsh her face had appeared when that _version_ of her had ordered for mother Giselle to be put to the gallows, or for her advisors to be questioned. It had just been a game, a trick played by that demon, but she couldn’t help but wonder if all of this had been its creation only, or if that thirst for power wasn’t a secret, shameful desire of her heart after all. She thought she might ask Solas about it, eventually. The elf, even though sometimes too philosophical for his own good, was a good listener and did his best to give back some useful advices.

She had skipped breakfast, not really hungry anyway, and gone straight for the war room where council was already being held.  She pushed the large door open, nodding to her advisors for sole greeting. She frowned slightly at the obvious tensed atmosphere but said nothing, merely eyeing them with an arched eyebrow: Cullen and Leliana both looked like two petulant children who had just been found quarrelling, whilst Cassandra was glaring at them with a patience wearing thin, and Josephine, the candid star student lost in a class full of dunces. 

“Is this a pouting challenge? Oh please, tell me you don’t intend to leave the decisive vote to me, I can’t decide whom to elect,” Herah said, her face remaining dead serious. She approached the Templar and the spymaster who were looking at her with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. “Hmm no, you lost it. But I’m sure that with a bit of work, you’ll both be able to dethrone even our dear Seeker here.” Cassandra’s eyes could have bulged out of her skull. “Keep the good work, though.”

“I can’t wait to hear the tales of how _hilarious_ the Inquisitor was,” Cassandra said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It makes me wonder how the historians of Thedas managed to miss writing about that side-splitting qunari’s humour.”

Herah quickly glanced at Josephine who was hiding behind her clipboard, her little frame shaking with repressed laughter. She turned back to the warrior, bowing her head with an exaggerated deference, her lips spreading in an amused smirk.

“Well Cassandra, if one manages to force a smile out of your constantly pinched lips, I believe said person deserves quite the number of dithyrambs. An altar, even.”

The Seeker merely rolled her eyes, albeit with a light, very light smile on her lips.

“All right,” she said, “enough fun. We have a decision to make regarding Therinfal’s Templars.”

That word seemed to fan the ashes of Cullen and Leliana’s quarrel, as they both started arguing again, the tone quickly rising.

“Trust them? _Trust them_?” Leliana chocked on the words, what Cullen had just proposed obviously the most preposterous idea to her ears. “How can we trust–”

“Leliana, you weren’t _there_ , all right? So stop acting as if it were the case!”

“What difference does it make? Those Templars took _red lyrium_ , you know full well what that stuff does to people! Or did you forget how your precious Knight-Commander lost it and tried to kill Kirkwall’s Champion when the Chantry blew up?”

“And to whom should we turn, then? The Mages? The same Mages who couldn’t handle a mere guidance that was _necessary_ and threw Thedas in a war?” Cullen looked at the bard his jaw clenched almost painfully. “This is whom you want to ally with? A band of anarchists who don’t understand the principle of _order_?”

“Oh, but I suppose Templars who follow orders blindly without questioning–”

Leliana’s voice faltered to Adaar’s ears. She seemed to drift away from the scene, still watching their lips moving angrily while Josephine was feebly trying to mediate the altercation, as was Cassandra, albeit without abiding by the rules, but everything was suddenly muted. 

_“The Herald has questions for you.”_

And there she was, back at the mercy of that Envy Demon, back in those endless corridors, unable to escape the ghastly scenes it had put in her mind.

_“The qunari has failed, Seeker; the Breach is still wide opened and for all I know, she intended it that way.”_

Her lifeless body, surrounded by Cassandra and the Chancellor Roderick, flashed before her eyes. What if she failed? What if she was unable to seal the Breach? What if…

“Inquisitor?”

She opened her eyes, not remembering to have closed them. They had stopped arguing, now looking at her with concern. She turned to Leliana who had just spoken, and the vivid memory of the spymaster slitting Cullen’s throat played before her eyes.

“Mistress Adaar, are you… do you feel well?”

It was Josephine who had spoken, her clipboard hanging at her side, its candle dripping on the floor. Looking at the diplomat, the only thing the qunari could see was the memory of her pleading against the bars of the cell where Herah had put her. _“Four days without food. One without water. I wished the Herald would tell me what she wants me to confess.”_ At this point, Herah was looking ashen and gasped audibly.

“I–I’m sorry,” she managed to say, almost hissing the words, not knowing how to deal with the overwhelming guilt, among the swirl of emotions drowning her.

She fled the scene, seeking refuge in her room where she tried to shake herself, to regain control. That demon had poisoned her mind, she thought bitterly. It had planted some dark images in her brain that had not only plagued her night, but now haunted her day as well, it seemed.

She caught a glimpse of herself in her mirror and shivered with unease. _“I will take your face. I’ll become you, and you’ll no longer be.”_

“Raah!”

The mirror shattered under her angry fist. She breathed in deeply, relishing in the pain, that _soothing_ pain that told her this was real; she wasn’t having a nightmare, this was–

Three knocks. Three timid knocks on her door.

“Mistress Adaar?” It was Josephine, of course. Herah could only imagine her squirming with unease on the other side. “I understand you probably want some time alone, but I just wanted to ensure you were all right.” A pause. The qunari looked at the door in disbelief, her mouth slightly opened.

Her throat constricted painfully as the mercenary took those words, those kind, genuine words, in. She was not used to this; not used to care or to be cared for. She wanted more than anything to be able to rebuff the diplomat, like she’d do with anybody else. A sudden anger rose in her eyes as she thought of how _weak_ her legs were in front of Josephine, of how she’d kneel without protest before the woman, her faintest sigh being like the strongest command to her ears.

“Is there anything I can do?”

But she couldn’t. Herah couldn’t push Josephine away.

“It’s open,” she heard herself say, barely above a whisper.

The door squeaked as Josephine came in. Herah tensed up a little as she watched her eyes drop on the shattered mirror, before moving to her bleeding knuckles. She didn’t comment however, already picking up the pieces scattered on the floor, but the qunari stopped her.

“Don't’,” she said, her neck burning with embarrassment. “Please, just… sit.” 

Josephine obliged, siting on the edge of the bed, for that was the only furniture of the room, along with a closet. Her keen eyes never leaving the averting frame of Adaar, she waited politely for her to speak.

“What has Cassandra told you about what happened in Therinfal?” Herah eventually asked.

The diplomat frowned slightly, not used to see the Inquisitor so… hopeless. She always had this fire burning inside, ready to explode like the breath of a dragon, and now she just looked tired. Defeated, even.

“She said the Templars had gone mad because of the red lyrium and that there was some sort of… possession, involved?” 

“Yes, the red lyrium seems to cloud the mind of who’s foolish enough to take it,” Herah whispered, lost in her thoughts. “Maybe it’s not so foreign to the qunaris’ quamek in that regard. Except it did give those Templars an incredible strength. I don’t recall ever having to indulge such hits from humans, I almost lost my blades.” 

Her voice died, a slight admiration in it, while her tired eyes fell on the shattered mirror. Josephine waited patiently for her to continue but Adaar remained silent.

“But there’s more to it, isn’t it? Cassandra said you were dragged _through_ the door by the Lord Seeker; that you disappeared.” She saw, not without stupor and a pang in her heart, the qunari flinch at those words. “May I ask what happened?” 

“I’m not sure myself,” Herah inhaled sharply. “The Lord Seeker was impersonated by an Envy Demon who “took his face”, as he explained. He dragged me… in my head.” She looked tentatively at Josephine, whose face harboured a mixture of concern and disarray. Well, it was somehow reassuring to see she wasn't the only one to have difficulties grabbing what exactly had happened back there. 

“I was in my mind like we’re in this room,” she added, hoping it would make the scene clearer.

“All right,” Josephine said, folding her hands on her lap, ever so polite.

The qunari wanted to laugh, the situation being so ridiculous. How come _she_ , a mercenary, a mere sword fodder waiting for the blade that would one day slice her throat or plunge through her ribs, was here in Haven, trusted with that holy mission? How a qunari such as herself, the race depicted as fearsome and merciless _beasts_ in humans’ books, could stand before the collected, gentle woman that was Josephine Montilyet without the diplomat flinching? Herah felt out of place, suddenly. She had felt like this from the moment Cassandra had freed her of her chains to make her ascend from prisoner to Herald of Andraste, but the uneasiness had somehow faded away with the missions that had send her away from Haven. Now, the doubts had come back stronger than before, fed by the venom the demon had instilled in her mind. She didn’t deserve any of this, she thought, looking at the room; not after what–

“If you’re uncomfortable with this, I assure you you’re under no obligation to tell me anything,” the ambassador said quietly, her strong gaze never leaving Herah’s unsure eyes.

The qunari looked bewildered at the woman, the mouth slightly opened in surprise. She seemed to consider this option for a brief instant, but chose against it, breathing a response Josephine didn't quite catch.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked, leaning a bit forward.

“I _tortured_ you,” Herah half hissed half chocked, the words burning her throat as she spoke them. “Back there, with that demon, I… I saw myself send mother Gisele to the gallows; I saw Leliana slice Cullen’s throat, right before my eyes. I could _smell_ the ferruginous odour of blood. And then you were all in cages, cages where _I_ had put you, where I had you questioned relentlessly.” She rubbed her face, tired, the horrid pictures assaulting her mind again. “I had you starved and refused water,” she breathed, the guilt smothering her. “I tortured you.”

Josephine stayed silent for long minutes, her face curiously baring no anger Herah noted, but a deep, genuine compassion, which only made the qunari feel more culpable.

“How did you escape?”

“I don’t know exactly. I think I got help from a spirit, but I might just have imagine– wait, did you _hear_ what I just told you?”

Josephine nodded.

“I did. I understand this must be troubling, but it wasn’t real. That Demon tricked your mind; surely you don’t think you would do such things, do you?”

“I don’t–” 

“You’re not a torturer, nor someone who’d send people to be hanged just for the thrill of it.”

It hit Herah harsh, and she stayed dumbfounded for several seconds as she finally realised it: Josephine was persuaded that she was inanely a good person. She was genuinely convinced that the woman she was to advise was their saviour, the Herald of Andraste, or at least, someone worthy of such a title.

Josephine saw good in her heart, and for a reason the qunari couldn’t explain, it made her feel both warm and terribly cold; happy but also angry and full of despair, for she couldn’t see herself with such kind eyes even if she tried.

“What picture you have of me, I wonder,” she breathed, still confused. “I saw the books they give to children to warn them about my kind, but you don’t seem to abide by their teachings.” She tilted her head on the side, squinting her eyes. “In my mind I tortured you,” she repeated, as if to be sure the diplomat fully understood the meaning of each word. “I had Cassandra and Leliana killed right away, just because it pleased me. Cullen was begging on his knees for lyrium; I hear the withdrawal pain Templars suffer is unbearable, and so it looked. I cut Varric’s hands and stripped Solas of his magic; what am I, if not the tyrant that Demon branded me to be?” she added, nearly screaming now.

“It pains me greatly as it seems the one who’s truly been tortured is you, Mistress Adaar. Do you really think so low of yourself? As the mere idiotic and deceitful caricature of what doesn’t even deserve the name of literature?” She shook her head, abashed by what baseness her fellow humans were sometimes capable of regarding other races. “If some…” she hesitated, her good manners definitely shivering at what she was about to say, “ _country bumpkins_ indeed think of your kind as such, I assure you it is not the case of any of your advisors.” Although Herah was towering above her, her face twisting in a disbelieving snort and her eyes challenging her, Josephine did not back down. “Do you _really_ think any of us would be prejudiced against you because of your heritage? That _I_ would be?”

“No,” Herah admitted quietly, after a moment.

“Then why would we think of you as a savage, a mere killing machine, I don’t–”

“Because I am!” She cut sharply, her eyes gleaming with hurt, which left the diplomat speechless. “Because that’s what I was _raised_ to be!”

She inhaled deeply, almost out of breath by that sudden confession. Josephine’s mouth was slightly opened in surprised, as she realised she had, in fact, no idea of what Herah’s life had been like before Haven. Leliana’s words came back, nagging her. _“That qunari has managed to erase almost all traces of her in Thedas; even my best agents couldn’t get more than rumours about her.”_

“What did that naïve head of yours imagine?” Adaar spat, unable to restrain the venom from spilling over. “That my parents escaped the Qun to live on love alone and that a child would be the crowning achievement of it all?”

“I apologise if I assumed wrongly. It was not my intention to–”

“And forget about being always so _polite_ with me,” she grunted, annoyed.

“Forgive me if I’ve been taught to remain civil even with people I dislike.” Herah arched her eyebrow and the anger in her eyes washed of immediately and was soon replaced, to Josephine’s great satisfaction, by some sort of controlled apprehension. “I then suppose showing some basic courtesy to people I actually care for is the least I can do,” she added, a light smirk floating on her lips.

“I…” Herah was looking deliciously confused, and the diplomat could have sworn she saw a light blush creeping up the qunari’s cheeks. “People with whom I share any vague notion of care usually end with a rather gloomy fate,” she said, clearing her throat. “I would advise you to find a safer hobby.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m still free to disregard your advice then,” retorted the ambassador, standing up. “I’ll leave you be; I think you have a lot to process, and I need to check that Cullen and Leliana didn’t kill each other over that Templars matter.” She walked past Herah and stopped at the doorframe. “I really hope you believe me when I say we are all honoured to help a woman such as yourself, and that I’ve never seen such an admirable failure at fulfilling one’s parents’ asinine expectations.” 

The time for dinner had arrived soon enough and despite her unease, Herah had decided to join her advisors, hoping no one would mention her hasty retreat from the war table earlier today. Her wish seemed to be granted, as she was welcomed with polite smiles only; not even Leliana dared to grace her with he usual gibes.

The conversation was set on the red lyrium, Varric glad to offer some insight about what he’d seen the strange ore do to the people who had taken it in Kirkwall. The qunari couldn’t help but notice Cullen’s now grey and pinched face as the dwarf talked about the Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard, and how her zeal to purge the city of mages had carried her towards her fall.

“Don't’ get me wrong,” said Varric, gesticulating to emphasize his statement. “The woman was crazy to begin with, and I’m a tough judge, but she was hard-working and devoted to the Chantry. She compelled the admiration of people in Kirkwall,” he explained, pausing for a brief moment before adding: “that, and fear probably.”

“The woman in red,” a soft voice whispered out of nowhere. “It’s a bad memory for Cullen. Shame, fear; guilt comes when he drinks blue, now.”

That boy again! The same kid who had helped her at Therinfal! Herah had to force herself to remain unshaken, distracting her mind with long gulps of cold water, hoping that vision would disappear, eventually. Because it was just a hallucination, wasn't it? A mere trick played by her mind. She had asked her companions back there at Therinfal if they had seen the little blond boy, too. Everyone had looked at her confused, explaining she had come back alone, that there was no one else.

“I want to help,” the boy continued, now circling the table to come near her. “I want to help. The Envy Demon, what it showed you… it still hurts. But a spirit can heal, maybe not the body but the mind.”

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” she hissed between her teeth, rubbing her eyes.

“You hurt. You fear what the Demon showed you will happen.” 

“Shok ebasit hissra,” she murmured for herself, like a protective mantra. “This is not real, this is not happening.”

“Your mind is broken but it can–”

“I am _not_ broken!” she yelled, slamming her hands on the table and startling everyone, including Cole who had now disappeared even from her eyes.

“Err everything all right, Adaar?” asked Varric, the only one brave enough to break this awkward silence.

“He was just–” She looked around: Cole was gone. “It doesn’t matter, you can’t see him.” 

“See whom?”

“That boy, that kid from Therinfal, he…” She closed her eyes, sighing deeply. “He’s right, then. My mind is broken, I–”

“That is not what I meant.”

Cole reappeared out of nowhere, making everyone jump with surprise, Solas nearly falling from his seat.

“They can see me now,” Cole added with a light smile.

His apparition was followed by a stunned silence, eventually broken by Cassandra’s angry growl.

“ _What is this_?”

The young boy turned towards the warrior, undeterred.

“Hello. I’m Cole.”


	6. The undertaker

Cole had caused quite a stir amongst Adaar’s advisors. Cullen and Cassandra were adamant the spirit was better off or dead, but far too dangerous and unpredictable to be kept in their ranks; Leliana, albeit wary of the new arrival as well, rather saw him as a useful tool they could use to spy their enemies. Or maybe she was just keen on taking the opposite-stance to whatever Cullen was saying, still not completely over the fact he had managed to get them to side with the Templars. Josephine was… well, she was being Josephine. Ever so polite, forcing a smile Adaar could see trembling, when she was looking at the young boy, and making her best for him to feel at home. With no surprises, Varric was exceptionally good at understanding Cole, and was quite taken with the one he’d nicknamed “kid”. Solas was, for a lack of better word, interested by the new comer.

Adaar was still not sure what to think of Cole. If magic was already treated as dangerous by the qunaris, and its practitioners seen only as monsters to be curbed, spirits were not much better. If they were mentioned in old legends or children stories, spirits were always depicted as malevolent and bad omens.

One of the popular legends of Qunandar said that the first Saarebas had been an undertaker who, driven mad by the sight of his lover’s lifeless body, had cried to the night for mercy and seen salute in the apparition of a spirit. Surprisingly, the spirit was always depicted as appealing in qunaris’ paintings, with soft traits and bright colours. But the gift this kind spirit had bestowed upon the heartbroken undertaker soon turned out to be the worst curse.

The undertaker wanted the power to fight back Death, and the spirit obliged, with the warning that Death is intransigent when it comes to bargain, and that one life could be given back only if one life was taken in exchange. The undertaker, smelling the catch, thought himself smarter than Death and bargained a half-life, thinking that it would allow him to see his lover again and avoid death all the same. The spirit agreed, and half of a life was the price to see the lover’s eyes opening again.

But no love could outsmart Death and the undertaker learnt it the hard way, for half a life was given to his lover, and half a life taken from him. With his newfound power, he had torn whom he loved most from a peaceful sleep, to an eternity of agony between two worlds, where he condemned himself as well. Those eyes he had long to capture with his own again were now full of hatred and pain. Unable to die, for he was not completely alive, and unable to live as well, the undertaker was doomed for eternity to watch how he had destroyed was he had so desperately tried to save.

No one knew how the next Saarebas had appeared; it was thought to be the price to pay for trying to outsmart Death. Magic was thus treated with caution among the qunaris, if not a bit of resentment.

“You called for me, Adaar?”

Solas was standing at the door of Herah’s room leaning on his staff, draped in light beige and wide willow linen robes. As usual, he exuded sternness and calm, for which the qunari was grateful in the midst of Haven’s tumult.

“Yes, come in Solas,” she said, motioning for him to come in the room. “Make yourself at home,” she added a bit awkwardly, casting a glance at her austere room. She let her heavy frame fall on the edge of her bed and made a sharp gesture with her chin towards the only chair of the room, but the elf kept standing.

“I wanted your opinion on different matters, with what happened at Therinfal Redoubt.”

“I would have thought my opinion on the side you chose to take was clear enough,” the mage offered with a light smile that could very well have been a sneer.

“Not that,” Herah clarified, undeterred by the mocking tone. She was perfectly content with her choice to side with the Templars, and nothing Solas could say would change that. After all, weren’t the qunaris depicted as stubborn as a mule? “I wanted to ask you about Cole and what happened _there._ ”

Solas stared wordlessly at her for several minutes, as if trying to read her mind. Herah didn’t squirm under his strong gaze, and lifted her chin a bit in a challenging manner.

“I believe the only person here apart from you who’s heard what happened at Therinfal Redoubt, is our chief diplomat,” he said with a light smile, not quite as haughty as usual, but surprisingly warm and sincere. “And even my brilliant mind is useless at such guessing games; care to explain?”

If the qunari had looked disarmed for a fraction of second at the mention of Josephine, she had regained her composure just as quickly, looking at the elf with an impassive face.

“I was dragged through the door by that Envy Demon and… well, we were in my mind like you and I are in this room. I don’t know how to explain it any better,” she said a bit hastily, her hard eyes daring the elf to laugh at her explanations.

“I take it this is where you met Cole?”

“Yes.”

She grunted, rubbing her eyes with her large, callous hands as if it would help her to see better.

“But how is that even _possible_?” she asked. “How could Cole have been _there_ too? He’s real; he’s not a vision or a dream. But that means everything else must have been real to some level too. That means–”

“You are afraid that what that envy demon showed you was but your one creation in the end?”

“I’m not afraid,” she corrected him, almost baring her teeth.

“Of course you’re not,” he said with a small bow. “To answer you, Cole is real indeed, but what happened with the envy demon… it’s real only to some level. Demons take pleasure in twisting the fears and desires of their victims. It’s quite uncommon for a demon to pursue a prey like this one did for so long,” he explained, frowning slightly. “But I suppose that the Inquisitor would be quite the trophy to have indeed.”

“But what the demon showed me,” she began, unsure.

“Don’t let it define you, Inquisitor. We are all floating in an ocean of desires, of fears; some of us are better than others at navigating through it, but I daresay that you are more able than anyone to resist the waves.”

Herah nodded, biting her lips.

“Was there anything else?” the elf asked softly, startling the qunari out of her reverie.

“Yes, Cole,” she said, clearing her throat. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Well, several of your advisors have counselled you to banish him from our group. Why would my opinion weight more in the balance than theirs?”

“It does not.”

“Then why do you require it?”

“Because I’m… I can’t trust my judgement on this matter. So I’d like to have yours.”

“Because of what happened at Therinfal?”

“No.”

“Why then?”

Herah muttered something.

“Sorry, what?”

“Because I was taught _wrong,”_ she hissed between her gritted teeth. “I’m prejudiced against spirits like all the qunaris because we’re taught that there’s no such thing as a _good_ spirit, that you can’t trust them, but Cole’s different. He _helped_ me.”

Solas considered this with pursed lips and eventually gave a sharp nod.

“Cole is an unusual spirit,” he said carefully. “There’s no way of knowing if he will remain the gentle boy you met, of if it’s just an act. Spirits are not entities to be toyed with without an extreme caution,” he warned her. “But I could… watch over him, with your accord of course, to limit the risks.”

“We’ll do that,” the qunari whispered. “I’ll inform my advisors; meanwhile, I’d like for you to go talk with Cole, just to make sure we’re on the same page.” She rose from her bed, which creaked under her weight. “After all, he can’t go on appearing and disappearing like that or Cassandra will end up strangling him.” 

The advisors had taken in the news with a moderate satisfaction. Nevertheless, they trusted Herah with her decisions and had all agreed that if Solas was watching over the boy, this was remotely safe after all. The only person apart Solas who seemed truly delighted, was Varric.

“What’s with the stupid grin?” asked Herah after bumping into him at the door of their war room. “I take it you can hear through the doors despite having enough earwax to polish all the benches of Haven’s chapel.”

Her tone was a bit harsh, abrasive, but the corner of her mouth was twitching in a light, very light smile.

“Madam, spare me the compliments you’ll make me blush!” He gave a loud, throaty laugh, his eyes full of mischief, and started walking with Herah. “So you’ve decided to keep Cole, huh? I bet Cassandra was _ecstatic_.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” came a curt reply, behind them.

Cassandra looked at Varric with a mixture of amusement and sheer desperation, he arms folded on her chest.

“I suppose _you_ should be glad that the Herald likes such… unusual companions at her side,” she said with a smirk playing on her face. “What she finds in you, I wonder.”

“Ah, I suppose a good storyteller is always appreciated, don’t you think?”

Cassandra blushed slightly and retorted with a grunt before leaving the scene quite hastily, to both Herah and Varric surprise.

“Well,” said the dwarf, taken aback, “that wasn’t weird at all.”

“Humans,” retorted the qunari, laughing. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand them.”

“Oh, but don’t sell yourself short, Inquisitor. I daresay you get along quite well with some of them,” Varric whispered, a knowing smile on the lips. Adaar had not time to reply anything or kick the man as her clenched fists were itching to that he was carrying on, way louder this time. “Ah, Ambassador!” he roared, emphasising his shout even more with some grotesque gestures. “We were just speaking about you!”

Josephine had stopped on her tracks as she’d heard Varric, and was now approaching them, her clipboard and a pile of parchments in her arms.

“Good words, I hope?” 

“Always,” said the crossbowman, “our Inquisitor would never speak ill of–”

A strong hand fell on his shoulder, with such force that it momentarily startled him into silence. The long fingers were digging painfully in his skin, and even is thick jacket couldn’t spare him the hurt.

“Varric, I thought you had to do something else, elsewhere?” said the qunari between gritted teeth, bearing a strained smile that made her look as if she had lockjaw. 

“Ah, but–”

The hand tightened its grip, the dwarf’s knees almost giving out as it did.

“-but you’re right Inquisitor!” he said, forcing a joyful tone out of his mouth. “How _kind_ of you to remind me.”

Adaar released her grip on the man, who bowed one last time at Josephine and her, before retreating, his hand still massaging his bruised shoulder. His departure was followed by a silence heavy with meanings, Josephine looking at the qunari her head slightly tilted to the side, an infinite fondness in her eyes as she was holding Adaar’s stern gaze. 

Herah cleared her throat awkwardly, feeling the heat rise up to the tip of her horns.

“Uh… Would you like me to help you with those?” she asked nodding towards the pile of papers, quills and inkwells the woman was carrying.

“If you don’t mind; that would be greatly appreciated.”

Herah simply nodded and took most of Josephine’s things, leaving her only with her clipboard and a mildly offended face.

“Really?”

Herah, who had been careful as to not go so far as _brush_ the little frame of the ambassador whilst taking all her material in her large, clumsy hands, was now defensive again, her gaze hardening and defiant.

“Where do you want me to take this?” she said a bit curtly, even if trying her best to remain courteous.

 Josephine looked as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it at the last moment. She sighed, starting to walk. “In my office.”

The walked in silence, Herah catching glance at the frame of Josephine who looked so small and fragile next to her broad shouldered self. She forced herself to take small steps, as to not outrun the diplomat, which resulted in a jerky gait. Between that and the parchments she could only guess already wrinkled under her sweaty palms, she felt positively ridiculous and was inwardly cursing at her foolishness.

As they arrived at Josephine’s office, they were greeted by no one else than Chancellor Roderick himself.

“Ambassador,” he said with a wave of the hand that could as well have been a gesture to chase a bothering fly away. “I was hoping to have a word with you, I… Ah.” He stopped abruptly when he saw who was escorting the Antivan. A sneer crept up his face, as his gaze full of condescension fell upon the qunari. “I thought your inquisition had brought back horses from the Hinterlands? Surely there must be a mule in the lot you could use to carry your things, ambassador,” he said with the tone of an advice, albeit not quite hiding the slur, “there’s no need to use the qunari for this.” He had stressed the word as if it were the only way such a vile term could pass his pure lips. He looked up and down on Herah, his smile widening slightly as his eyes stopped on the horns. “But maybe you prefer to use a _cow._ ”

Herah lifted her eyebrows, surprised by the nerve of the chantryman. Her muscles tightened unconsciously, and the parchments suffered her clenching fists. Her eyes were burning as was the blood rushing in her veins, and she felt the bestial urge to kill the Chancellor. The sense of honour instilled in her since her childhood dictated her to break his bones, to put her strong hands around his neck and twist it like the rolls of paper she was carrying. Or maybe just frighten him to complete silence, to that lethargy traumatized people sometimes fell into. She wanted him to pay, to hurt him, to-

A soft hand on her forearm stilled her murderous thoughts.

“Chancellor Roderick, I shall have no words with you. Not today or any other day, and I hope you’ll be wise enough not to approach me anymore. I’ve never witnessed such a hideous conduct, and the only thing that keeps me from sending you walking askew is the fact that I don’t want to be stained by touching you. You’re probably one of the rudest man I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet, and I’ll let you know that the only cow in here, is you.”

Josephine had spoken calmly, but her words were deadly and cold. Her eyes had remained fixed on Roderick, filled with a disgust that didn’t become her. She looked positively repulsed, and the harshness in her voice had stunned the chantryman in a shocked silence.

Herah said nothing when the diplomat opened the door to her office. She said nothing when she carefully put the papers, quills and inkwells on the desk. They both heard Roderick made his retreat, but kept quiet. This awkward silence filled the entire room; it was suffocating.

“Inquisitor, I-” Josephine began, unsure, trying to reach out to the other woman.

“I should go,” Herah cut her of, already walking towards the door. She stopped and seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Panahedan, lady Montilyet.”

Herah had gone straight for the training grounds. There was just too much in her head and she needed to let this tumult out. Roderick’s insult had hurt, in a way, but it was nothing compared to the fact she had let it pass like it was nothing. She had _yielded_ as soon as Josephine’s small hand had touched her arm; she had obeyed that woman like a mere pet and couldn’t even be angry with the diplomat because what was she, if not the kindest person she’d ever met? But she was too kind for her own good. She was too kind to _her_ and Herah didn’t know what to do with it. She was nervous like a goddamned teenager around the Antivan, and couldn’t explain why. She recognised her perfume now, floating in the air after her, and felt guilty, so _guilty_ for it. She knew by heart the details of her golden attire and how the woman would often replace a strand of hair behind her ear with a shy, apologetic smile.

She felt like a puppy following its mistress everywhere, yearning for a caress or a sign of affection, unable to contain that awful bubbly feeling in her stomach when Josephine Montilyet’s soft eyes were looking at her, _really_ looking at her.

She felt _sick._

“Mistress Adaar?”

Cassandra seemed a bit surprised to see the qunari striding towards her, the eyes harsh and watery.

“I need a release.”

The Seeker nodded, not asking for any explanations. She had seen Roderick leaving the building in haste a bit earlier; it wasn’t hard to add two plus two. She fetched two training swords and threw one at the qunari.

“Then come and get it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this update took quite some time but I finally have some free time with the university (and a degree! hehe) so hopefully my writing will be less sporadic. ;) Thank you all for your kind comments and welcome to the new readers!


	7. Vitaar

The sparing with Cassandra had left Adaar with a rather huge black eye that was now turning into a garish yellow-green stain. Of course everybody had seen it but no one had dared to ask, although Cassandra’s little smirk hadn’t been missed as well and had definitely inflated the yet timid gossiping. Herah knew that amongst her companions, only the Seeker would more or less understand this kind of request and actually accept to give in it. Maybe Cullen would have enjoyed a little fight as well, but the qunari had an inkling the former Templar would have been reticent to actually hit her. Cassandra hadn’t exactly held back, that was for sure. 

Still, Herah didn’t mind the black eye at all. She hadn’t even bothered to put some clay-elfroot paste on it and was just thinking about putting some vitaar on the next time she’d have a fight. Her lips stretched into the ghost of a smile at the thought: around Haven she could find nothing else than elfroot and deathroot, which while useful in the preparation of the qunaris’ war paint, were but very basic ingredients. In the Valo-kas, it was Katho who’d always prepare some vitaar for the rest of the company. Herah had never thought of asking her what she put in it, remembering its characteristic dark blue colour and rough texture. She could almost feel it again, like sand on her skin. Why had she never asked Katho how she made it?

Herah bit her lips, shaking her head in an attempt to chase the thoughts away. She couldn’t place a word on what she was feeling exactly, the closest notion coming to mind being ‘homesickness’. And with that, the conclusion that maybe, Katho had felt like being home, too.

Pushing the uneasy feelings aside, Adaar had gone to the apothecary of Haven, Adan, hoping to find him in an accommodating mood. She was welcomed with a grunt, the man not even looking at her, still bending over his table and rummaging through scattered papers.

“What do you want _now_?”

His voice was barely hiding the annoyance, but to have him say anything altogether was an accomplishment in itself. The qunari looked at the place, sighing inwardly as the few plants displayed were of no use to craft some vitaar.

“I was wondering if I could borrow one of your pestles and a mortar.” 

He rose and looked at her with a frown. Saying nothing, he indicated a shelf with a wave of the hand. She was already taking the tools and ready to leave when Adan forced a little linen bag in her hands. 

“It’s a tisane concoction I made for your diplomat. Bring it to her, will you?”

“Is she unwell?” 

“Headaches and general fatigue. This won’t do any miracles, though, but the lady refuses to take it easy so it’ll have to do. Hide her inkwells and quills, if you want my opinion: it will do more than all my remedies can hope to achieve.”

Adaar knew her advisors were not the kind to take it easy, and she was forced to admit that for humans, the stamina they all showed was impressive. Of course Josephine, though not accustomed to the same battlefield as the others, was just as much a resilient combatant. She had often spotted light under the crack of the diplomat’s office door, late at night. Herah would sometimes pause just check on the Antivan, trying to talk her into getting some sleep. The woman usually fought a bit, arguing that there was still so much to do, but the qunari’s soft voice an amused smile always won the argument.

“Lady Montilyet?” She said, knocking at her door.

“Come in.”

Adaar obeyed and quietly entered the office, a tender smile tugging at her lips as she noticed the diplomat, the nose buried into pile of letters, her small fingers stained with ink.

“Shenadan, lady Montilyet.”

The Antivan raised her head immediately, the surprise on her face as she saw Herah at the door quickly turning into a welcoming smile.

“Your worship, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Herah left the doorframe in one swift gesture, presenting Adan’s concoction that looked so small in her large hands.

“I’ve been mandated to bring you this remedy,” she explained. “The apothecary told me you suffered from headaches,” she added a bit lower, looking at the diplomat with eyes full of apologies.

“It’s very kind of you,” Josephine said as she took the small package. As she did, her fingers brushed the qunari’s palm, which coloured Herah’s cheeks ever so slightly. “I still have many letters that need to be answered but… Well, I suppose I’d better go and brew some of it,” she said, eyeing the linen bag. “Those headaches are hard to chase once they’re here.”

“I’ll come with you to the kitchens,” Herah said, stepping aside to let the diplomat lead the way. “I need my one concoction as well.”

The kitchens were empty, although a fire was still roaring in the fireplace. Josephine put a kettle of water on it, before turning to look curiously at the qunari who had begun to mash her leaves and roots in the mortar.

“I recognize elfroot and deathroot, but I would strongly recommend _not_ using the later for your tea,” she said, chuckling.

“Ah, but this is no tea I’m making, dear ambassador,” retorted the qunari before she could stop herself. Focused on her mortar, she feigned a sudden confidence and nonchalance she wasn’t quite feeling, however still avoiding the delightfully flushed young woman behind her. “Ahem. Anyway, so those letters are giving you headaches, then?” 

“Well, the nobility wouldn’t be what it is without the headaches it is causing,” the Antivan joked, before sighing and rubbing her temples. “I’ve been trying to reinstate my family as a trading power in Orlais for months now but reaching Val Royeaux proves to be difficult.”

Herah stopped grinding the burgundy paste in her mortar and turned around, eyebrows arched in question.

“I’m the eldest child,” Josephine explained. “It is my duty to oversee our family’s merchant business, but rest assured that it won’t come in the way of my work for the Inquisition.”

“I know it won’t,” she said with a smile. “Do you have many siblings?”

“Three brothers and one sister, yes.” She chuckled at Herah’s baffled expression. “Not quite what you expected?”

“No, it’s just-” She cleared her throat, stomping her pestle a bit harsher on what was already a complete pulp. “It’s a big family.”

“Are things different for qunaris?”

Herah watched Josephine carefully take her kettle away from the fire and brew her tisane, and couldn’t help but suddenly wonder what the diplomat’s life had been like before Haven; what her family looked like. How different had her childhood been from hers? Had they played the same games as children, without knowing it?

“Yes, I suppose they are,” she said quietly, setting the mortar down on the table and taking a small dagger hanging on her hip. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters. It’s uncommon for qunaris to have multiple children.” She paused, and added, a curious expression briefly passing across her eyes. “Or a family, for that matter.”

And just as casually as that, she took her dagger and sliced her palm open and mixed the dripping blood with her preparation. 

“Oh, that’s curious, I thought- _what are you doing_?”

Josephine had almost let go of her cup and was now looking at Adaar her eyes wide open in anguish.

“It’s called _vitaar_ ,” Herah explained, with an apologetic smile. “It’s what qunaris paint themselves with in preparation for battles. It hardens our skin, but for it to work you need blood; _qunari_ blood _._ ” She tilted her head slightly, looking at the diplomat fondly. Her brown eyes were fixed on the bleeding hand with a nauseous expression. “I assure you it doesn’t hurt. I’ve seen worst than just a small cut.”

The Antivan nodded meekly, visibly not fully convinced. She seemed about to add something but was interrupted by a new arrival.

“Ah, Josie, there you are, I-” Leliana’s bubbliness vanished instantly as she realised they were not alone, and her usual mask of graveness was back, as well as a mild displeasure. “Inquisitor.”

Adaar didn’t even bother to answer, simply nodding in acknowledgment and resuming the preparation of her vitaar. The spymaster didn’t seem to care the slightest, though, already handing a folded report to Josephine.

“Your courier’s been found dead, Josie, I’m sorry,” she said, putting a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“And the documents?” asked the diplomat, her eyes scanning the report at an alarming speed.

“Gone.” 

Josephine remained silent, reading the note again, her lips trembling ever so slightly.

“It says… It says he was killed by a beast,” she said, swallowing thickly and trying her best not to imagine what the remnants of the man must have looked like.

“Farmers found the body mauled, yes. They think it must be a bear or wolves. We don't know what happened to your letters: there's no trace of them.”

“I didn’t know the roads to Val Royeaux were home to _scholarly_ wolves,” Herah deadpanned, earning a piercing glare from Leliana. The qunari ignored it, and turned to the diplomat with a grave expression on her face. “You have a contract.”

“What?” 

“A contract. You have a contract on your family. This is an assassin’s work, not some random beast attack.”

“But the marks on his skin… The report says-”

“In times like this, I’m pretty sure a simple messenger boy wouldn’t venture out of the main road, even if it’d save him some time. The merchants’ roads are too frequented to be the prey of strays, and now more than ever with the war going on, he’d more likely have been killed by a random jinx or a lost arrow.”

Josephine didn’t looked convinced but Leliana was listening carefully, her lips pursed in displease. Of course the Spymaster would take offence in missing this possibility. Herah couldn’t help but smile a little at this.

“All it takes is the right blade and expertise,” the qunari explained. “May I?” she added, motioning for the report. 

Josephine handed it to her, and a quick reading told Herah all she needed to know.

“Alright, let’s say a thief was passing by, don’t you think he would have taken more than just documents that are of no use for anybody but you? You couldn’t possibly resell them, right? So why would someone trouble themselves with useless papers instead of taking fine cloth, a bit of gold and the jewellery your courier was wearing?”

“It pains me to admit it, Josie, but mistress Adaar is right. Although I must say I’m curious as to how it comes she knows so much about the habits and customs of _criminals_.”

The qunari let out a dark laugh, her teeth showing like the fangs of a rabid dog.

“And here I thought you’d have the brain to work that out by yourself, Leliana. I suppose it just shows how much humour your dear Andraste possess.”

The spymaster growled in response, but Herah ignored it, turning back to the Antivan.

“We will look into this after tonight, lady Montilyet. I promise you those documents will reach Val Royeaux, even if I have to deliver them myself.” 

Josephine’s cheeks coloured in a light pink at this. Leliana for her part was looking at Herah completely taken aback, her mouth slightly open in a vain protest.

“Your worship,” the ambassador began softly, “I can’t possibly ask you that, it’s-”

The qunari brushed it off with a wave of the hand whilst finishing her vitaar. She looked at the flustered woman right in the eye, an uncommon solemnity in her gaze.

“Do not mistake this for empty words: I said I would get your documents to Val Royeaux, and I _will._ ”

Leliana’s surprise turned into a contemplative frown at this, but she refrained from commenting what she found so weird coming from the qunari. She glanced at her friend who seemed unable to utter a single word, and felt a strange pang in her chest. There was something in Josephine’s eyes that made her heart twinge with jealousy, but she wasn’t sure why.

“What’s all that make up for anyway?” she asked, nodding towards the bowl of vitaar with a haughty expression.

Herah turned slowly towards the spymaster at this interruption, cursing the woman in her head for not knowing when to just shut up and _leave._

“Why, I’m making myself pretty to close the Breach of course,” she said with a fawning voice, her eyes screaming murder as they locked with Leliana’s.

The redhead smiled defiantly and, with a deft movement, caught the bowl from Herah’s hands.

“Well, I’m sure I could make this work as an eye shadow.” 

“If you don’t wish to die, I’d advise you to give it back,” the qunari said slowly, curiously not as threatening as expected, in Leliana’s opinion.

“Don’t you qunaris live for the community? Not one for sharing, are you?” 

Herah smirked. If that annoying redhead hadn't been a close friend of Josephine, she'd probably have let her steal her vitaar without a word.

“It’s poisonous for other races than qunaris,” she explained. “Death is almost instantaneous depending on what herbs you used, but be my guest and try, if you think I’m lying.” Leliana gave the bowl back, albeit reluctantly, like a child knowing he’s being scowled rightfully but doesn’t like it. “It’s the blood,” Herah carried on, showing her injured hand. “We use our blood to craft vitaar. It hardens our skin and allows it to take the beneficial effects from the herbs without being poisoned.”

“Well, I’ll keep to my own powders, then. I still have a couple of missives to send before we deal with the Breach. I shall see you then, Inquisitor.” Leliana concluded a bit abruptly before leaving.

Herah merely nodded in acknowledgement and returned to her preparation, adding a bit of water to it. Josephine watched it closely, entranced by the scene. Her eyes followed every gesture of the qunari and she felt her mouth go dry when the long fingers traced a soft line going from the eye to the temple, accentuating Herah’s features in a way that made her look like a vengeful goddess. 

“Do the patterns mean something?”

Herah looked up, surprised. Josephine was biting her lower lip and her curiosity had her nearly squirming on her chair, it seemed. Herah felt her chest widen and smiled lightly.

“They do. Vitaar is used for special ceremonies as well, not only for battles,” she explained, looking at the dark mixture before turning to the ambassador again. “And I-” she cleared her throat and added, so low it was always inaudible: “I find it very pretty.”

“It is.” Josephine smiled fondly at the qunari. “It suits you wonderfully well.”

Herah opened her mouth to retort something but no sounds came out. She could feel herself blush a bit and was thankful that her cheeks were partly hidden by the burgundy vitaar she’d just applied.

“What does this pattern mean?”

“Ebasit kost’ri, “be the one who brings peace”.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought it would be something… grim,” the diplomat admitted with a guilty smile. “Or maybe more frightening in its meaning.”

“I suppose it’s not exactly what you would expect from a qunari warrior,” Herah admitted, laughing, “Although it can have several interpretations, it’s not a design usually chosen by those who fight. But I’m fond of this pattern, it’s one that my mother taught me.”

She finished to apply her vitaar wordlessly; silence felt oddly comfortable with the Antivan, she thought.

“What is she – was? – like?” Josephine asked shyly, as if afraid of both the question and the possible answer.

The qunari’s focused gaze veiled itself for a second, and her mouth opened and closed again, without a word crossing her lips. She seemed to hesitate as to _how much_ to reveal to the diplomat. She had never talked about her family to anyone for as long as she could remember. Even with the Valo-kas, even with Katho, she had kept to herself. She had never managed to confess to anyone. But there laid the painful truth: Josephine Montilyet wasn’t just _anyone._

“She’s probably still alive, knowing her,” she said carefully, tearing her gaze away from Josephine’s sweet eyes. “We… haven’t seen each other for a long time. As I said, families are oddities for qunaris.”

She felt silent again and Josephine joined her in her wordless prayers, understanding that it was probably the first time Herah talked in so many words about her family. All diplomat that she was, Josephine knew that words could sometimes be heavy and _painful_ ; and she had seen how those were razor blades cutting Herah’s tongue as she tried to spoke them.


	8. Until we meet again

The Breach was closed. The green storm looming over their heads was no more, and seeing the night sky full of stars almost seemed out of place, now. Herah didn’t know how she would have done to close a rift of this size without the help of the dozens of Templars who now boosted the Inquisition’s ranks. The process always felt a little weird, like a tingling sensation traveling up her arm; this time, it had been painful. She had felt the blood in her hand burn and soon, her entire arm had been set aflame by the pain. She had wanted to stop so badly; she couldn’t help but feel ashamed at this weakness of character, but she had honestly thought she’d die. That her bones would tear her skin as they felt like breaking, or that her body would simply fall into dust, not able to withstand so much magic coursing through her blood. But they had done it: the Breach was closed, and judging by the stunned silence around her, she hadn’t been the only one doubting a bit that their enterprise would prove successful.

And then she heard a rustling of metal, and another. She turned around to see Templars and Inquisition’s scouts kneeling before her, their head bowed in respect. She looked at Cullen who was standing a little bit further, along with Cassandra and Leliana. The three of them were smiling and slowly brought their hand to their chest, the relief showing in their eyes. It didn’t take long for this moment of reverence to be broken by a cheerful shout, and soon enough, the entire place was filled with laughter and joyful screams. They had closed the Breach.

“This round’s for me.”

The tavern of Haven was full, bustling with soldiers and commoners like an anthill that had just been stepped on. It was so crowded in fact that people had to drink outside, and that there simply wasn’t enough glasses to serve everybody, so that bottles were passing from hand to hand until completely emptied.

Being the Herald of Andraste had certain perks, though, such as having a table for her and her companions. Cullen had just gone to fetch some hydromel, his cheeks reddened by the previous drinks. Herah followed him with her gaze, before turning towards the rest of the table again. Varric was speaking loudly about the Breach, the tale inflating in extravagance by the second and making even Cassandra snort. Solas was somewhat more relaxed than usually, in deep conversation with Josephine about Maker knows what – from her chair, Herah couldn’t make up what they were talking about. Next to her was standing Cole, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, but looking content and not as anxious as usual.

“Relief. Joy. They believe, now. Lost faith regained. Pride.”

The qunari was grateful to hear a mumbling that made sense, for once, and that didn’t sound like a bad omen given by a fortune teller. The spirit looked at her, his eyes wide opened like those of a marvelled child.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What for?” she said, chuckling.

“For this. For them. Feeling their happiness, their joy: I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much. I like it. Their heart is filled with purpose, with faith.”

“Well, you’re welcome, Cole,” she said a bit awkwardly. “I suppose that will help with the Chantry that I brought more believers to their church.”

“It’s not in the Maker they have faith, it’s in you.”

She didn’t know quite what to answer to that and just offered a strained smile before gulping down the rest of her tankard. Her eyes met briefly with Josephine’s, who was no longer talking to the elven mage but watching her with an unconcealed interest. The intensity of her gaze was disconcerting, and Herah only managed to choke on her drink, the ale running down her chin. Perfect.

“She doesn’t think you’re a total idiot,” Cole said with an even voice, and Herah prayed that Josephine wasn’t able to make out what he was saying.

She was about to tell him to just stay quiet when a horn resounded. With the noise in the tavern, and Maryden still desperately trying to be heard over the ruckus, she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t simply imagined it, but the alarm resounded again, stronger this time, and Herah stood up immediately.

“Cassandra,” she said with her loud voice, effectively catching the attention of the Seeker. “With me. Varric, go fetch Cullen.” She turned around to see Leliana and Josephine rising from their seats as well, the eyes full or questions. Her tongue suddenly felt like lead when her eye locked with the ambassador’s worried ones. She said nothing and forced her way out of the tavern, her large hands gripping shoulders and pushing strong men’s frames aside as easily as if they were dolls.

Once outside, she ran to the watchtower, vaguely aware of Cassandra trying to keep up with her, along with other hurried steps.

“Herald! There!” said the soldier posted there, his trembling fingers pointed at the nearby mountain.

Lights, hundreds of lights approaching. This couldn’t possibly be good.

“What is this?”

Cullen had just arrived, out of breath. He followed Herah’s gaze and his eyes widened.

“Forces approaching,” he whispered. “But we aren’t awaiting any allies.”

Cassandra grunted.

“We must go to the gates.” She looked at the soldier. “Sound the alarm again and go fetch Harding and tell her to get the scouts ready to possibly defend Haven.”

They hurried towards the gates, yelling at the guards to close them. Cullen was already ordering around the first soldiers and Templars joining them.

“Massive forces approaching! Be ready to fight!”

Leliana and Josephine had joined them as well.

“Under what banner are they marching?” the diplomat asked with a frown.

“None,” Herah said, not looking at her and biting her lips. From the distance, it was difficult to evaluate just how many were approaching, but her gut feeling told her that whoever they were, they were outnumbering them. And Haven was not built to repeal an assault: it was just a simple village. This was not good at all.

Someone hammering against the large wooden doors of the gates startled her out of her thoughts.

“Let me in! I’m here to warn you!”

The soldiers hesitated but Herah motioned for them to open the doors. Beside her, Cassandra and Cullen had pulled their sword out of their scabbard.

The doors revealed a mage unlike any Herah had met so far. He presented himself as Dorian Pavus. What a curious name.

“I’m here to warn you,” he repeated, panting. “The mages of Redcliff… They’re with the Venatori, led by a woman named Calpernia and under the command of something called “the Elder One”. They’re here to kill the Herald of Andraste.” Everyone turned to look at Herah, who’s face was empty of emotions. Dorian smiled a bit. “So it’s you. Well, Andraste certainly have surprising tastes, I have to say.”

“How many are they?” Cullen asked. “And who’s that Elder One? Why do they want to kill the Herald?”

“Enough to transform this place into ashes,” Dorian said. “I don’t know who or what that Elder One is. The Venatori are a cult of Tevinter nationalist supremacists. I think they believe that the thing they obey will restore the glory of my dear homeland. As for why they want to kill you,” he turned towards Herah, tilting his head slightly. “Well, that’s the question, now, isn’t it?”

The qunari sighed and looked at the mountains again. She could hear Cullen barking orders to soldiers, and Cassandra following as well. Leliana had gathered some of her agents too, whilst Dorian was providing additional knowledge on the Venatori and their magical abilities.

“Go arm the trebuchets,” Herah eventually said, barely above a whisper, her eyes still fixed on the large mountains around Haven.

“But…” Cullen hesitated. “We will never be able to have a good aim from this distance, it will never be enough, we should prepare the soldiers to fight and defend–”

“They won’t need to.” Herah turned around to face her advisors, who were all looking at her with a frown. “Aim for the mountain, there,” she explained. “An avalanche doesn’t need accuracy to kill. They won’t have the time to run from it, mages or not.”

She had spoken with a calm that was almost scary, but Cassandra immediately approved the pragmatism of their leader.

“It could work,” she said. “It’s our best option so far. If some of them survive, at least their ranks will be shortened and the fight will be more or less even. We’d actually have a chance to win.”

It was impressive how little time it took to prepare the trebuchets. They waited for the Venatori troops to be close enough to get a maximum of them swallowed by the deadly snow. Out of the corner of her eye, Herah could see Josephine was livid, rooted to the spot. Varric seemed uncomfortable with the situation as well but said nothing. Herah inwardly sighed. What choice did they have, really? Kill or get killed. Be stronger, faster, smarter. _Run and don’t look back, never look back._

The qunari didn’t flinch when she gave the order to fire. She didn’t shudder when she watched chaos running like a beast towards the mages. She heard the screams of horror carried in the valley and didn’t start moving again until they heard nothing at all. All this, she could do without as much as a frown on her face.

One thing she couldn’t do without crumpling, though, was looking at Josephine.

“Tell the soldiers and Templars to be ready,” she whispered with a tired voice, the order thrown at no one in particular, “in case there are survivors.”

She had only walked a few steps, with no particular purpose, when she heard it. She spun around, her eyes scrutinising the sky and the hand already on her daggers. Cassandra must have understood as well, because her eyes too were looking up.

It came so fast they had no time to react.

The large dragon had flown low, breaking parts of the ramparts and sending a trebuchet in the air as if it weighted nothing. Its flames had hopefully not aimed their little group, but several houses were aflame, with people trapped inside.

“In the Chantry,” Herah yelled, her throat burning as she forced the words past her dry mouth. “ _now_!”

She didn’t look back to see if she’d been obeyed, and ran towards the nearest house from where she could hear screaming. Cassandra had followed her, and together they managed to save several people. Not everyone, though. They eventually ran to the Chantry as well, Cullen closing the doors behind them. They heard the cry of the beast again, probably looming over their retreat and searching for an opening.

Herah put her forehead against the cold stone and closed her eyes a moment. They’d die here. She had trapped them all in this stupid Chantry for nothing, giving them all only a little more time, but not saving them from a painful death. All those soldiers, those Templars; they had ran in there to seek shelter, believing in her command, believing in her. Her advisors as well, they were all here. Varric and Solas, too. They had all put their faith in her, and she had condemned them all.

She had condemned _Josephine._

Herah felt her eyes sting and clenched her fists into balls of anger and despair. Her fingers scrapped feebly against the stone. Josephine would die, and it would be her fault.

“Andraste… she must have known, the pilgrimage…”

She vaguely recognized Roderick’s voice, and turned to see him a bit further away, with Dorian kneeling next to him. The mage was trying to heal him the best he could, but even from where she stood, Herah knew the Chancellor would not survive his wounds.

“Inquisition people?” Dorian called, waving. “I think this clergyman knows a way out.”

And indeed, it turned out Roderick did know a secret passage in the mountains, one only the pilgrims knew about. But still, the dragon would need to be distracted to give them enough time to flee. Then, once in the mountains, they would be safe, away from the beast’s keen eyes. It didn’t take long for Herah to form a plan, the only one that would work. It was her, after all, whom this Elder One sought.

“Cullen,” she said after a moment, her voice oddly collected. “Prepare the soldiers and Templars to leave and escort the remaining villagers to this pass. Find out if Dennett survived and arrange that all the mounts we have can be taken through the mountains. Cassandra, you’ll go help him.” She turned towards Leliana and Josephine. “Be sure that no documents are left behind. If there’s too much to take with you, burn the rest, but let no sensitive information to the Venatori.” She paused briefly and reached for her long daggers. They felt heavy in her hands, but the weight was soothing, somehow. Like if it grounded her a bit. “Solas, I’ll need you to send a gerbe of sparks or fire when you’re all far enough and safe.”

“Wait a minute.” Varric was the first to protest, the others too stunned to utter a word. However, his protest soon enough loosened up the tongues of their companions. “Adaar, you can’t possibly think–”

“There’s no way we’re letting you behind!” Cullen boomed. “You don’t stand a chance alone with this dragon!”

“Inquisitor…” Leliana’s voice was strangely soft, her face lacking her usual sneer when she addressed Herah.

The qunari raised a hand to stop the rest of the protests. Her eyes briefly met with Josephine’s; she was white as a sheet, her mouth opened but with no sound coming out.

“That’s an order, Cullen,” she said as she faced him again, her gaze strong and unyielding. “It’s the only way and you know it.”

“But you will–”

She wanted to say she didn’t care, but her throat constricted painfully. She simply gestured for him to go to the remaining soldiers and Templars, and do as he was told. She was thankful he obeyed, and that Cassandra followed his lead; she wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to argue, to fight her desire to live. Dorian and Solas had gone patched up the wounded, Varric had helped, too, and soon, it was only Leliana, who was supporting Josephine, and Herah.

The spymaster was holding the shaking frame of the diplomat in her arms, her eyes fixed on Herah. She nodded to the qunari, a newly found respect in her eyes, and left her and Josephine alone.

Herah took a tentative step towards the young woman, as one would approach a frightened animal. She felt her heart sink in her chest when the Antivan’s red eyes looked up to her, and all the words she so desperately wanted to speak suddenly lost their meaning. They stayed silent for what seemed to last an eternity, close to each other but not quite touching. Eventually, Herah bowed, slow and low, her eyes never leaving Josephine’s. What could she possibly say? How could she explain how she felt her entire body burning with both euphoria and agony when their eyes met; that all the romantic poetry, the songs, couldn’t do justice to someone like her; that she would miss their silent walks and her perfume, sometimes lingering in the kitchens after she had gone brew some tea for her long nights? How could she find the words, the right words, to describe all this?

“Goodbye, _kadan._ Until we meet again.”


	9. Coming back

So _that_ was the Elder One.

Taller than her, which was something Herah wasn’t accustomed to, the Elder One was looking at her with both hatred and satisfaction. His flesh half rotten, eaten away by what looked like red lyrium, was gleaming ominously under the light of the brazier left by his dragon. Whatever the Elder One was, she couldn’t say; in her numerous travels, she had never witnessed anything like him. Her first thought was that he was some sort of darkspawn; it fitted more or less with the descriptions she had read about those creatures. But the Elder One was articulated, probably too much for his own good, so there must have been more to it, she thought.

Herah wasn’t afraid per se: she had resigned herself to her fate. Living as a mercenary, she had always known that one day, she would be the one loosing the battle; that one day, her blade wouldn’t be the fastest, and that she would fall for good. She had always kept the notion at bay, and now that she was faced with what was probably her last fight, she wasn’t afraid, not really. But she wasn’t at peace either. She had never cared for bringing some deeper meaning to her existence, as it was the wish of her parents. They had done all they could to raise her as some extraordinary being, but she felt she had failed them. She had never truly understood what they wanted from her, and their relationship had always been complicated at the best of times. Looking back at her life, she felt a rush of despair wash over her as she realised how poor it had been, how _empty_ if felt. Yes, she had travelled, met countless of people of all races; but it had all been fleeting moments, like butterflies she could never dream to catch in her large hands without killing them. She had been loved, but had never cared to just try to understand this notion; she had never allowed herself to reciprocate and had always kept her distances. She had seen what happened to the fools in their mercenary band who had fallen in love with comrades or tavern whores; love was a distraction she could not afford if she wanted to stay alive. Not caring was simply _easier._ And so she had remained distant from everything and everyone, building strong walls around her, feeling content if not happy in her solitude.

That was until recently. The Inquisition had changed her more than she cared to admit. She had come to realise that she actually _liked_ some of the people she worked with, and that her care for them was genuine. When they were in an expedition and she slashed an enemy that had been about to hurt one of her comrades, it didn’t simply feel good like it used to, there was some relief coming with it now, relief that they were _safe_.

Most important of all, in the Inquisition, she had met Josephine. Her embarrassment about it, her hesitation to speak felt utterly foolish now that it was too late to say those words she kept singing in her dreams. She couldn’t hear what the Elder One was saying to her right now, n or the deafening cry of his dragon; her mind was blissfully lulled by the memory of Josephine’s laugh, and Herah found herself smiling lightly. Maybe she wouldn't leave completely at peace, but she was close to it. If she could just take this picture with her, this was enough.

She didn’t need to survive this ordeal; she hadn’t planed to. She just needed to keep him talking and distract him and his dragon long enough for the rest of the Inquisition to reach a safe place. Then…

Well, she just hoped it would be quick and as painless as possible. She wouldn’t go gently into the night, she’d fight of course, but she knew her chances of success were very low and that the situation was hopeless. It was pointless to pretend otherwise. Maker! This would be so close to a miracle she would perhaps start to believe in the Chant of light after all.

“I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”

Corypheus had grabbed her by the throat, his fingers feeling like talons on her skin. She was chocking, her vision blurred by both the lack of oxygen and the pain. His grip was so harsh she thought her neck would snap at some point. In her mind, Josephine’s bubbly laugh faded away and she felt trapped in a growing anguish, like cold waters slowly filling her lungs and drowning her.

He threw her against the trebuchet as if she were but a ragdoll weighting nothing. She landed hard, the wind knocked out of her. Gasping for air, she greeted her teeth and felt tears starting to run freely down her cheeks. One of her ankles had been twisted as she had crashed against the catapult, and she was pretty sure it was broken. Blood was dripping from her forehead and she almost didn’t' see the signal because of it. She forced a smile that was more of a grimace, her teeth yellowed by the blood in her mouth.

“This is the end. You’ve toyed with powers beyond your understanding, but your foolishness won’t stop me.”

“Ataash varin kata,” she whispered, before slamming the blade of her dagger on the cord holding the trebuchet.

She heard Corypheus’ ire, followed by the rumble of the avalanche she had caused, and then there was only silence.

When she opened her eyes again, she was underground, stripped of her weapons but hopefully alone. She had no means of knowing if the Elder One had survived this; she wasn’t sure to be alive herself. The pain was still here, pulsing in her ankle and crawling up her leg like spiders. She managed to rise up, albeit not without whimpering. The snow were she had been lying was tainted red, and she just couldn’t bring herself to touch her head. Maybe she had broken one of her horns and it had torn her skin in the process?

She looked around, wondering what that place was. It looked like a gigantesque cave, with tunnels that probably snaked all under Haven. One of them had collapsed under the trebuchet, which was completely destroyed. She snatched a piece of wood and managed to make a rudimentary splint with it and a bit of cloth.

Walking was painful.

Not only painful, but draining as well. The snow reached her knees, and Herah had to lift her legs high in order to move. She had found an exit from the tunnels, and was now fighting against the strong wind biting her skin. She was following the direction of the signal blindly; the steps left by her companions had long been erased by the falling snow, and soon enough, the exhilaration of having survived was replaced by despair again. She had no weapons, she was alone, wounded, and she could hear wolves howling in the night. If the predators didn’t get her, she would certainly die of cold and fatigue.

Eventually, after what felt like hours of walk, she heard _them._

“There! It’s her!”

It was Cullen, she thought with a light smile.

“Thank the Maker!”

She recognized Cassandra’s voice as well, and blacked out.

Herah had switched between a comatose state and a dazed consciousness all the way to Skyhold. She had been plagued by a persistent fever, and her brief moments of wakefulness mostly consisted of delirium and screams of agony. The anchor was glowing more than usual and pulsing ominously, and no one, not even Solas, knew what to do about it. But eventually, they had reached Skyhold, settled there, and two days later, it was in a real room, on a solid bed, that Herah awoken.

It took several minutes for her eyes to get accustomed to the light. She tried to remember what had happened exactly and how she had gotten there. The last thing she could recall was the distant voice of Cassandra, and then, the cold embrace of snow as she had passed out. Her breathing was laboured; her throat hurt and her mouth was dry. She tried to force words past her chapped lips, but only managed a strangled noise. Almost at once, she became very aware of the pain. She felt like she had been broken entirely and that someone had _tried_ to put the pieces back together but had failed miserably. The nausea overwhelmed he, and she barely managed to turn her head on the side of her bed to throw up. After that, she passed out again.

She didn’t know how much time had passed when she opened her eyes again, but her mess had been cleaned up, and this time, she had company. Varric was sitting on a chair next to her bed, eyeing her with a smile.

“Welcome back, you frail little thing,” he joked, though despite his faked nonchalance, Herah could see the raw emotions playing in his eyes.

The qunari chuckled, but her laugh quickly turned into a painful cough that left her wheezing, and desperately trying to catch her breath. 

“Ah yeah, we’ll have to refrain on the jokes for a little while; you still need some patching up.”

Herah nodded. Unable to speak, she waved her hand feebly around her, arching her eyebrows in question.

“You’re in Skyhold, an abandoned fortress on the frostback mountains, right between Ferelden and Orlais. Chuckles knew of it, from his wanderings in the Fade I take it. It needs a bit of cleaning to be honest, but I’m sure you’ll find it to your taste.”

Herah kept silent. She had so many questions, but no strength to voice them.

“I’m happy you came back in one piece,” Varric carried on in a whisper. His eyes were too watery for the qunari to handle, so she closed her own. “I still don’t know _how_ you managed to survive this; Maker! I might even start to believe you’re Andraste’s chosen after all. But yeah, I would – _we_ would have missed you, Adaar.”

She exhaled a bit sharper. Andraste’s chosen, eh? Even now, she still couldn’t believe it herself. Even if it all looked like more than dumb sheer luck, she couldn’t possibly accept the idea even if everyone around her seemed to think she _did_ walk in the Maker’s light. She looked at Varric, her lips trembling ever so slightly. He smiled fondly at her. 

“Ruffle’s alright,” he explained, and Herah felt a wave of gratitude and relief washing upon her. “She’s worried sick about you, of course, but alright. And I’m pretty sure she’ll fancy your battle scars: it always works with the ladies.” 

Herah gave a sharp laugh and hissed in pain, whilst Varric was chuckling on his chair. They were safe. _She_ was safe.

With both Solas’ and Dorian’s magic, as well as Adan’s concoctions, Adaar was able leave her bed in no time, although she still needed a cane to walk. Her breathing was still asthma-like and so she only spoke the bare minimum. Tired to await her healers’ green light, she had decided to leave her room and explore this fortress Varric had already spent hours describing. She hissed as she put some weight on her injured ankle and leant on her walking stick the best she could, her large frame not the most accommodating.

Eventually, she reached what must have been their new war room, as she could hear her advisors’ voices behind the door. She slowly opened it.

“So are you sure the roof joist will hold now?”

“Yes, I’ve talked to the carpenter, he said-” Cullen stopped dead when he saw the qunari at the doorframe. She still looked tired, her eyes underlined by dark rings; but even so, a fire lighted her gaze, a fire more powerful than the one breathed by Corypheus’ dragon. “Herald!”

She mouthed a scold but didn’t manage to go any further, a little frame almost knocking her off her feet. Josephine was pressed against her, her soft hands so strong as they circled her back. Herah found it difficult to breathe, and knew it had nothing to do with the injuries she had suffered. She smiled a little; she would have accepted to drown and suffocate for eternity if it meant being held by such a sweet woman. 

“You’re healed,” Josephine whispered in Herah’s clothes. “Maker, I feared you wouldn’t- but you got out of Haven! Still, I thought… I was _terrified,_ I thought maybe you wouldn't’-”

Herah gently put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. The Antivan’s sophisticated clothes were so soft to the touch. Silk, probably.

“I’m glad,” she began, rasping. _I’m glad I was able to come back to you, kadan._ “-we get to meet again,” she finished, so low it was barely audible.

She let go of Josephine as the other advisors were approaching as well, large smiles on their face. Even Leliana, with whom Herah had always had a hard time remaining cordial, seemed genuinely to have her back. Ah well, the spymaster wasn’t so bad after all; maybe she could learn to appreciate her a bit more.

They were already assaulting her with the tales of how they had found her in the snow and how they had walked towards Skyhold. They kept going about the restoration of the place and the last information they had gathered about the Venatori; they had welcomed new merchants from Orlais, who wanted nothing more than to welcome the Herald of Andraste in their shop and offer the finest cloth they had. Dennett had taken care of the stables; all the horses had survived the trip but he wanted to find finer specimens and had already sent letters to breeders he knew of.

Herah was only half listening, catching a glance at Josephine who was set back, and saw that she was wiping her eyes, a broad smile on the lips. And at that moment, she knew; then, she was sure.

_I will always find a way to come back to you, kadan._


End file.
